


To Be Seen Aright

by Deastar



Series: To Be Seen Aright [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Bondage, M/M, Marc-Andre Fleury Feels, More Alex Ovechkin and Shea Weber Feelings Than You Signed Up For, Pining, Praise Kink, Properly Negotiated Kink, Role Policing, Safeword Fail, Safeword Use, Spanking, Subdrop, Under-negotiated Kink, sub/dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 109,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: Sid’s gotten pretty used to total strangers asking him what he’s trying to prove, or telling him he wasn’t raised right, and they always expect it to bother him. He doesn’t tell them he hears much, much worse on the ice.When shit gets even worse than usual—when a ref calls him a brat when he’s arguing a call, when another team’s goon tries to put him on his knees five times a game—he sits on the bench and presses down on his chest protector, feeling the shape of the captain’s ring on its chain around his neck, until he doesn’t feel like throwing up anymore. Sid’s never had a dom, not even for a night, but he has his team, and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Magyar available: [Hogy látva lássanak...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15979205) by [DahliaVariabilis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DahliaVariabilis/pseuds/DahliaVariabilis)



> Content Warnings: Internalized kink-shaming; Mention of unsuccessful attempts to force someone into submission; Sexually threatening on-ice language and behavior that crosses the line of normal on-ice conduct; Brief mention of consensual sex between teenagers; Negative portrayals of Mike Ribeiro, Alex Burrows, and Ryan Getzlaf, to varying degrees; Multiple BDSM scenes that take place without adequate negotiation, several of which go bad, and multiple scenes in which the submissive partner should use his safeword but doesn’t. In particular, there is one scene that begins with a startling moment of violence that the POV character is not expecting. Please let me know if you felt these warnings were inadequate.
> 
> Notes: Because this is an AU, certain details (team rosters, award winners, etc.) have been altered; also, liberties have been taken with team schedules. I owe a huge debt to Werebear, Northisnotup, and macaronicap for lending their keen editing skills – any remaining errors are on me.

**Prologue: 2009**

 

Sid has a ring – it’s gold, and sits on the index finger of his right hand. It was Mario’s before it was his. Mario offered to put it on Sid’s hand, which was traditional, but—

Sid has always had to be very careful about his relationship with Mario, and even though he’d wanted that so much, he’d shaken his head no and let Mario set the ring in Sid’s palm for Sid to slide on his own finger. Once he’d put it on, he’d looked down at it, and his heart had started to beat faster – not because he was a sub and it was a dom’s ring, but because that ring meant that he was the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

It feels natural on his hand now, but he never forgets it’s there. He’s never allowed to. Strangers in the grocery store, on an airplane, at the DMV, will do a double-take when they see it. Not that it’s unheard of anymore—there are subs who are officers in the military or C-suite executives, wearing the rings of their authority—but it’s still rare enough to draw stares. And comments, of course. Sid’s gotten pretty used to total strangers asking him what he’s trying to prove, or telling him he wasn’t raised right, and they always expect it to bother him. He doesn’t tell them he hears much, much worse on the ice.

When shit gets even worse than usual—when a ref calls him a brat when he’s arguing a call, when another team’s goon tries to put him on his knees five times a game—he sits on the bench and presses down on his chest protector, feeling the shape of the ring on its chain around his neck, until he doesn’t feel like throwing up anymore. Sid’s never had a dom, not even for a night, but he has his team, and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.

 

* * *

 

 

**Part I**

 

Sid’s father is… a product of his time. His playing career mostly took place during a time when the only subs in the NHL were goalies, and there weren’t many of those. It’s made clear to Sid—not by anything his father comes out and says, but just by the _way_ his father talks—that his father assumes Sid is going to be a dom, just like him. A lot of that, of course, is that his father is never shy about saying what he thinks about subs playing in the NHL, and most of what he thinks is _no_.

When Sid is in elementary school, that’s no problem. Sid likes winning. He likes it _a lot_. He likes being better than the other team and kicking their asses and just… winning. He _loves_ winning. So obviously his dad is right, and Sid is a dom, just like him. Winning is a dom thing to like: winning is proving your dominance over the other team. So yeah. It’s easy.

When Sid is eleven, it starts not to seem so easy anymore, and by the time Sid turns twelve, it isn’t a question of easy or hard anymore. Sid knows what he is. There are enough subs in the NHL by then that Sid knows winning isn’t a thing that only doms like enough to work their way to the show. And Sid knows that there are things other than winning—still pretty dimly imagined things, but they’re there—that he wants, and he knows that those things are _not_ dom things to want.

He could try to hide it, of course. But every high school in North America, and every CHL team, has a staff evaluator, and you can appeal your evaluation, sure… but even if you win, there’ll be another round of evaluation at the NHL Combine. And that one, you can’t fight.

In the car on the way back from practice one day, Sid’s father starts in on Daniel Sedin, on how an NHL team could have wasted such a high draft pick on a sub who was just going to fold the first time a real NHL dom checked him into the boards. Sid lets it go on just about as long as he can stand, which is a long time. He counts to a hundred forward and backward; he looks at the trees out the window; and finally, when his father stops to take a breath, Sid says, “I’m a sub. Um. I’m pretty sure.”

Sid’s father is silent for a block, then for another block, and another. Finally, he takes a quick breath in and says, “I love you, kiddo. No matter what.”

Sid holds his breath and waits for the “but.”

“And you are gonna be… you’re going to be great, Sid. You’re going to be the best. I believe that, and you should believe it, too.” By the time his father stops speaking, his voice is shaking. The words had come out awkwardly, and haltingly, but there’s no doubt in Sid’s mind that his father meant them. He stares at his dad’s profile, shocked speechless.

After another couple blocks, his father asks with studied casualness, “No chance you might be a switch?”

“No, Dad,” Sid says, exasperated.

“Just asking,” his father says, shrugging. He shoots a quick look at Sid, and Sid can see the rueful smile crinkled up in the corners of his eyes.

Not a lot changes after that, except that Sid never hears a bad word out of his dad again about subs in the NHL. After a couple months, his father even starts talking _up_ the subs who’ve made it to the show, pointing out their strengths and praising their play. It makes Sid feel warm inside every time. They don’t talk about Sid’s dynamic at all—until years later, when his father starts giving vague speeches about avoiding distractions and how the only authority Sid needs to respect is the authority of his coach—but Sid never has to doubt that he has his dad’s support. Whenever things seem impossible, he remembers how impossible _that_ idea once seemed, and it keeps him going.

 

*

 

Sid takes his dad’s advice about distractions to heart. When he loses his virginity, it’s to another sub: Jack Johnson, his roommate at Shattuck. He’d had pretty low expectations, but it feels good, and Jack seems to think so, too. So when Jack asks him to be Jack’s fake dom—to let Jack practice subbing for somebody when the stakes are low—Sid says yes right away, and that’s pretty good, too. He tells Jack what to do and pushes him around and fucks his mouth, because that’s what gets Jack off, and when it’s over, Jack tells Sid he did a good job, because that’s what gets Sid off. Jack offers to do the same for Sid, but… Sid tells him, as gently as he can, that there isn’t any point.

“I can’t, Jack.” Sid lets himself lean a little bit on Jack’s shoulder and sighs. “What I need is to play. To play my _position_ , Jack. Nobody believes I can take face-offs against a dom. _Nobody_. I need them to… forget I’m a sub. To let themselves forget.” For the length of a hockey game, at least. “So this is how we make it make sense to them. If I never have a dom, if I never submit, then maybe I’m not really a sub.”

Jack is not impressed. “It’s bullshit.”

“It’s _working_.” Sid takes a deep breath. “And people are buying it, at least a little.” The buzz around Sid isn’t what it would be if he were a dom, he knows that. But there’s still plenty of interest. His agent, Pat, had reassured him that he’s on track to be drafted in the first round, which is really good, for a sub.

“You’re the best,” Jack says unhappily.

“Yes.” Sid would never, never, never admit that in front of anybody but Jack. Subs are supposed to be humble, eager to please. A sub who thinks he’s the shit is just looking for somebody to put him in his place. Sid’s had a lot of volunteers. “That’s the problem. If I were just really, really good—”

“Like me,” Jack says, without a trace of self-pity or hurt feelings.

“Like you,” Sid agrees. “Then it would be okay. Subs can play. But they can’t be the star. They can’t come first. They can’t _lead_. And I can’t—I can’t be anything _but_ that.”

“It’s not so great for the rest of us, either, Sid.” Jack’s voice is tight, and his shoulder is tense under Sid’s cheek. “Nobody trusts me to make my own fucking decisions about anything: about my career, about school, _everything_ goes through my parents, I don’t get a fucking vote—”

“I know,” Sid whispers. The one time Jack’s parents came to visit him at Shattuck, they’d taken Jack and Sid out for dinner. They’d made Jack curl up under the table and tossed scraps down to him like a dog; they made Sid kneel, but at least he’d gotten to feed himself. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m—”

Jack cuts him off. “It’s not your fault. Sorry. I shouldn’t yell at _you_.”

Tentatively, Sid puts his arm around Jack’s waist, and some of the tension washes out of Jack’s body. Quietly, he says, “It’s okay, Sid.” The two of them just breathe in tandem for a few minutes. It’s nice. There are so few people who are safe for Sid to touch.

Jack breaks the silence. “So you’re really never going to have a dom?”

“I don’t think I can,” Sid says steadily. “Not for… like, a relationship, anyway. Any dom is going to want the public stuff—you know, a collar, and hand-feeding, and kneeling in public and everything—and I… I can’t do that stuff. I can’t let people see me that way. If people think of me that way, it’ll be over.”

All of which is true – he can’t let people see him that way. And that’s easier to explain than the truer truth: that Sid can’t see _himself_ that way. That Sid doesn’t even know if he _wants_ those things.

To kneel for a dom when it’s just the two of them—Sid has always wanted that. He wants it… a lot. But to have somebody else putting food in his mouth? He can’t think of it without wrinkling his nose. Maybe he’s been warped by shoving down everything submissive about himself for years, or maybe people are right, maybe he was born wrong, just a bad sub to start with. That stuff is supposed to be _romantic_ , or at least be sexy, so Sid should want it. But he doesn’t.

So in a way, it’s a relief for Sid to be able to tell Jack that he _can’t_ have that stuff, because it spares him from having to admit that maybe he doesn’t even want to. And if that means that Sid can’t have the things he _does_ want—a hand around his wrist, a foot to kneel at, a possessive arm around his shoulders—well, Sid never really had a choice about that, anyway.

So Sid copes. He makes elaborate rules for himself and follows them meticulously, and he tells himself that the satisfaction of knowing he’s followed them to the letter is just as good as having a dom praise him and tell him he’s done well. He learns to keep his hands in his pockets, restrained there, with his wrists pressed into the hem of the pocket, and he tells himself that it settles him just as well as having a dom’s cuffs around his wrist would. He buys a necklace to wear in place of a collar, and doesn’t have to tell himself anything about that, because he likes the necklace for itself. In his whole junior career, he never gets to be the captain of any team he plays on, even though he’s the best player, and he tells himself it doesn’t bother him. His dom teammates want him on his knees—the nicer ones offer, trying to be helpful; the others demand, rough hands in his hair or on his throat—and he tells himself he can change their minds with his play and his professionalism.

He makes friends with the other subs on his teams – mostly goalies, since the bullshit arbitrary rules of dynamic roles decided that subs make great goalies: passive, patient, reactive. And when there are switches or adynamics on his teams, Sid usually gets along pretty well with them, too. Sid, constantly second-guessing his own instincts, is usually pretty evenly matched, social-awkwardness-wise, with the adynamics, who are playing by a different set of social rules than the rest of the world. And the switches… some of them can be shitty, too, but most of them understand the frustration of the world trying to shove you into a box that doesn’t fit you and never will. So they can sympathize.

Sid makes the friends he can, and stays scrupulously polite to his dom teammates, and he copes just as hard as he fucking can, and he _plays_. That’s what makes all the rest of it worth it: he plays. He plays his fucking heart out, and when he does, he leaves everyone else behind. Every crude comment and unfriendly prank fades into the background when Sid laces up his skates and steps out on the ice – every unwelcome touch and invasion of privacy seems small compared to the crisp slice of his skate blades into the ice and the blaring of the goal horn. Everywhere else, he’s a freak, but on the ice, he _belongs_. And as long as he has that, Sid thinks, the rest of it is never more than he can bear. No matter how bad it gets.

 

*

 

When Sid is drafted—first overall, which he’d heard was probably going to happen, but couldn’t believe until he actually heard his name called—he hopes that, with the Penguins, it’ll be different. And mostly, it is. A lot of the players have a collared sub already and aren’t looking, and they’re too aware of how much they need Sid as a hockey player to pay much attention to Sid as a sub. That lasts for probably… half the season. By then, they know him, and the offers start coming. At least it _is_ only offers; nobody tries to force him. But Sid comes to dread being alone with his dom teammates.

It always goes the same: _you seem tense_ , one says. _I don’t like to see you so stressed_ , says another. _It’s a lot of pressure, huh, kid?_ says a third. Does he want to work some of that out? If he’s looking for somebody to kneel for… It doesn’t have to be sex, they always tell him – some of them looking sort of nervous, because they don’t actually want him that way; some of them looking hopeful, because they do. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. They’ll take good care of him. It doesn’t have to be them, but he should find _somebody_. The pressure’s only going to get worse as the season goes on. Nobody expects him to be able to handle it by himself.

“No, thank you,” Sid always says, eyes lowered. He can’t bring himself to say he appreciates the offer. “I think I’m handling it okay.” If he weren’t handling it okay, Mario would have said so.

If he’s lucky, that’s all it takes. Army is one of those – he’s nodding as soon as the “no” comes out of Sid’s mouth, and then his eyes widen, and he blurts, “I totally just implied you can’t handle your shit. That’s, like… so insulting. You can handle your shit,” he assures Sid, looking worried. He’s the first dom teammate Sid becomes friends with, mostly because he’s the first dom teammate Sid allows to be alone in a room with him.

But if Sid _isn’t_ lucky, they try to argue with him, talk him into it. Sid tries to stay as bland and neutral as possible, eyes fixed on the ground. Talking back is how a sub gets a reputation.

Eventually, it’s over, or at least over for a while. Brooksie offers at least every couple of weeks; his eyes are kind. It makes Sid’s stomach hurt every time.

 

*

 

When Mario retires, the pressure does increase. Sid can handle it; Sid has been handling crazy amounts of pressure for years. He can’t help feeling that he’s failed Mario, though – that if he had worked harder, been better, he could have carried the team so Mario wouldn’t have had to.

The day after the Pens are mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, Sid comes home from a workout to find Nathalie sitting on the couch in the living room, reading a book in the golden spring sunlight, one finger hooked in the front of her elegant silver collar. The whole scene looks so peaceful, although that could just be because it’s Nathalie. Sid’s always been horribly in awe of her, of how she seems to effortlessly embody everything that a sub is supposed to be: caring and gentle, beautiful and serene, a perfect complement to Mario. If Sid is completely honest with himself, he’s more in awe of her than he is of Mario. With Mario, at least he _understands_ what makes Mario so amazing and intimidating.

Sid should go upstairs, but he feels as if his feet are too heavy to move. The room is tastefully decorated and spotless—a good sub keeps a perfect home—but Nathalie is snorting at something funny in her book, and her feet are propped up on the coffee table, not at all like the subs in commercials and TV shows, who just sit around the house looking lost or diligently cleaning things until their dom comes home to give meaning to their lives. Nathalie is happy with Mario, but she’s happy on her own, too, and Sid can’t help thinking that this is what he could have had if his life were different. It makes the heavy weight on his shoulders seem even heavier.

Nathalie looks up and catches Sid in the doorway. He doesn’t know what’s on his face, but he instinctively doesn’t want her to see it. He tries to turn away, but he can tell he’s too late.

“Hi, Sidney.” Her voice sounds normal, calm, so he chances a look. She’s smiling at him, but not as if she’s laughing at him. “You look like maybe you want to come join me.”

“I don’t have a book…” Sid says feebly.

Nathalie shrugs. “Sometimes it’s nice just to sit quietly, especially in the sun. Sunlight’s good for you, you know.”

Sid doesn’t have anywhere to be. He has no reason to say no besides his own embarrassment, so he slings his gear bag off of his shoulder and walks into the living room toward Nathalie. He pulls up short when she drops a pillow from the couch down to the floor next to her.

Nathalie doesn’t look at Sid when she does it, or after. She just gazes out the window and asks, “Would you like to sit next to me, or kneel?” She manages to make it sound like those are two different but equally acceptable options, like she’s asking whether him wants peppers on his pizza or not.

Sid… Sid’s never knelt for anyone except his dad before. Even kneeling for another sub felt like… an admission of something. And it never appealed, really: the whole point was to kneel for someone who wanted to carry the weight on his shoulders for a while, and he couldn’t feel right about dumping that weight on another sub. But Nathalie can carry anything; he’s sure of that like he’s sure of his name. And he wants, so, so badly.

Slowly, watching Nathalie like a hawk for any sign that she isn’t okay with this, or that he might have misunderstood, Sid lets his steps lead him to the pillow at Nathalie’s feet. When his knees bend, helplessly, and he comes to rest there on the floor, he has to bite his lip to keep from making an embarrassing noise. He can’t really compare the feeling of it to anything; it’s not sexual, but it is intimate, to a degree that he wasn’t really prepared for. The closest thing he can think of is that it’s like staring into somebody’s eyes for a long time, which is funny considering that he hasn’t lifted his gaze from the ground this whole time.

Nathalie asks quietly, “May I touch you? Or would you prefer I didn’t?”

“Y-you can,” Sid manages. When Nathalie’s warm, soft hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, he has to choke down a sob – it feels so good. He feels… safe, and grounded, like all the things that have been dogging him all season are being pushed down and out of him by the slight weight of Nathalie’s hand.

“You’re doing great,” Nathalie murmurs. “You can stay down there as long as you want. This author is making me nuts with these cliffhangers, so I’m going to be right here until I finish this book.”

Sid just nods, a tiny movement – he’s not sure he could speak, and he wouldn’t trust his voice if he did.

Sid doesn’t know how long he kneels for Nathalie. It could have been ten minutes, or it could have been an hour. He’s not really conscious of time passing, or of anything other than his body, his breathing, and the sound of Nathalie’s pages turning. At a certain point, the quiet in his mind gently recedes, and he feels like himself again… except he feels about twenty pounds lighter. The problems that seemed so huge this morning feel manageable, and his head feels clearer and sharper than it has pretty much all year.

As soon as Sid lifts his head, Nathalie removes her hand, and when he meets her gaze, she smiles. “Good?”

“Yes,” Sid says, hesitantly smiling back. He gets up a little too quickly, and then, embarrassingly, has to lean on a woman half his weight to keep from falling down.

“There you go.” Nathalie tilts her head. “Glass of water?”

Sid flushes – he knows aftercare when he hears it, and he doesn’t want to push Nathalie out of her natural role. “You don’t have to—”

“Glass of water,” she decides. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen.”

“But your book,” Sid protests.

“Oh, I’m taking it with me, don’t you doubt it.”

In the kitchen, halfway through his water, Sid says, “Mario…” and then doesn’t know what comes next.

“…will be relieved to know you have somebody you feel safe kneeling for,” Nathalie says firmly.

Sid has a sudden, terrible thought, and he chokes out, “He didn’t tell you to—”

“ _No_. Not in the slightest. Who you kneel for or if you kneel for anybody at all would normally be none of his business – it’s just the fact that I’m his wife that makes it his business,” she says, making a face like _What can you do?_

Stumbling, awkward, Sid asks, “If I… again, could I—”

Nathalie smiles at him. She doesn’t look put-upon or weirded-out – if anything, she looks relieved. “Any time you want. I mean that.”

Sid doesn’t take her up on it very often; he still feels odd about it, and he could never do it if he thought Mario or the kids might see him like that. But until he moves out for good, every couple months, he screws up his courage and finds Nathalie in the living room or the laundry room or the kitchen and kneels for her while she goes about her day, pausing to rest a hand on his head when she passes by. He wouldn’t say he needs it, exactly. It’s not like, in the months where he doesn’t kneel, he grinds to a halt and can’t function. But it helps. Nathalie helps. And Sid is so, so grateful.

 

*

 

It occurs to Sid to think, every now and then, that if he can have the kneeling part of having a dom—and if having it makes him feel better, makes him happier and healthier—then maybe he could have some of the other parts, too. He’s pretty sure that “thought” comes from somewhere south of his brain: he’s a young guy, and adynamic sex with other subs or adynamics can be fun, but it’s not… it’s not what he thinks about when he’s alone.

So Sid has the thought, but it never goes beyond that. Kneeling for Nathalie is safe and good, but that’s because he trusts her, and it’s private, secret. Nobody _sees_ him submitting, so his submission doesn’t damage the public image he has so carefully built for himself: a sub, but only technically. A sub, but only in name. What dom could Sid find who he could trust to keep his submission just between the two of them?

Doms brag – Sid’s spent enough time in locker rooms to know how doms brag. It’s an essential part of their dominance: what’s the good of having possession of a sub if people don’t _know_ the sub belongs to you? That’s the whole point of collars and rings, isn’t it – to show off? What’s so exciting about getting a sub to do some edgeplay thing they told you they were scared of if you can’t _tell_ people about it, make them jealous of how much power you have over your sub? That’s how one of Sid’s teammates in juniors explained it, anyway, and from the amount of bragging that Sid’s heard over the years, he thinks it must be true.

And for Sid, the risk of a dom telling the world what he likes in bed goes beyond just reminding the world that he’s a sub. Because the things he likes…

There’s something wrong with him.

That’s become more and more obvious as he gets older. And nobody, _nobody_ can find out.

As a sub matures, their tastes are supposed to develop, to deepen into really intense stuff, difficult stuff. But Sid’s… Sid’s never did. He still likes the same things that he liked back when he was first discovering his submission—light, easy things like praise and gentle touch and being held—and the promised development, if it hasn’t come by now, doesn’t seem like it’s ever likely to.

Sid knows that the stuff he fantasizes about is immature, stunted – kid stuff. Stuff he should have grown out of. A real sub, a mature sub, doesn’t need constant praise from his dom. A real, mature sub doesn’t need to be touched gently, or even _want_ it except as a reward for doing something difficult. What kind of sub expects pleasure when they haven’t even done anything to _earn_ it yet?

 _A spoiled one_ , Sid thinks, sick to his stomach. _A failed one_. A sub who only craves praise and pleasure and gentleness is weak, selfish – a prissy little pet who expects to be pampered and spoiled, who isn’t willing to _work_ or _give_ anything to please his dom.

When he was younger, he would get off to thoughts of being held down by a dom who told him he was beautiful and made him beg for every kiss, and then he would curl up on the floor by the foot of his bed and cry. _I’m broken_ , he would think wretchedly, _I’m pathetic_ , because he was way too old now to still be jerking off to the thought of padded cuffs around his ankles and a quiet order to obey, rewarded by a whisper of “ _Good boy._ ”

He doesn’t cry anymore. It’s fucking exhausting, and it never changed anything. He’s still the same sub he’s always been. And if he doesn’t jerk off as often as he thinks other subs his age do, well… Guilt really has a way of killing the afterglow. He doesn’t need it that often, anyway. And it’s nobody’s business but his.

That’s the way it has to be—nobody’s business—for at least as long as Sid plays. The alternative is… Well, he gets a preview of the alternative, every time he steps on the ice. The things they call him—a wimp, a baby, a spoiled brat, the coach’s pet, a pathetic excuse for a sub, a whiner—are blows that land right on the place where he’s already bruised. It’s as if they can tell, somehow, that Sid is stunted, deficient – as if they can smell the weakness on him.

He won’t— _can’t_ —prove them right. Not if he wants to stay in the NHL. There’s no space in this league for a weak player, and there’s always a hundred other skaters right behind you, waiting to take your place.

So that’s not an option. A dom is not an option. Doms need their dominance to be public, a display, and Sid can’t give a dom that, or trust a dom not to take it without his consent. He’s worked too hard for his NHL dream – there’s no way he’s going to risk it now.

 

*

 

Losing the Calder to Ovechkin is a blow, even if Sid saw it coming. He’s better than Ovechkin, for sure, but only by a little, and he learned long ago that “a little” doesn’t cut it when competing with doms. _Twice as good just to go half as far_ , he thinks, sitting in the stupid auditorium in Vancouver, keeping a pleasant expression on his face as he claps. He knows the cameras are all fixed on him, waiting for him to frown or look bored or upset. No way is he giving them the satisfaction.

Ovechkin himself is… a puzzle. Oh, he doesn’t seem that way, not on the surface. The guy is practically a parody of a dom: loud, brutal, obnoxiously confident, with an ease in his own skin that Sid will never match.

But Sid saw him cry, once, at World Juniors, after Russia lost, and the memory has stuck with him. The dom that Sid would assume Ovechkin is, the stereotype, wouldn’t have cried at all, and if he had, he’d have tried to hide it somehow, or to minimize it. But Ovechkin wept openly, unashamedly, physically leaning on his teammates for support, looking totally fucking ravaged. So there’d always been a… a complication in the back of Sid’s mind, when he thought about Ovechkin. The image of a sobbing figure flickering in the corner of his eye whenever he saw Ovechkin throw himself into the boards in thumping, percussive triumph.

Whatever kind of dom Ovechkin is, Sid had assumed he had the goddamn common sense not to feed the stupid media machine pushing the two of them to criticize each other. But he’d been wrong, much to his chagrin. About halfway through February of their rookie year, Ovechkin had straight-up told a postgame scrum of reporters that, “Yes, Sidney Crosby is for me my rival. I think about try to play better than him, and is push me to my best hockey.”

Sid had been furious. Oh, not furious enough to say anything in front of the media – he kept his bland mask intact when asked about it. Certainly he wasn’t going to say that _he_ thought of _Ovechkin_ as his rival.

But later that day, seething as he paced back and forth in the den in front of Mario, Sid snapped, “It’s such _bullshit_. He set me up for a ‘rivalry’ that only _he_ can ever win, because nobody in the media is ever going to admit that a sub beat a dom at anything. He’s turned me into his punching bag, into an _object_ , like I only exist to make _him_ better—which is true, now, because every time I fail, the media are going to use it to make _him_ look good, to show how unfavorably his _rival_ compares.”

When Sid paused to gulp in a breath, Mario had steepled his fingers and said mildly, “Did it ever occur to you to take it as a compliment?”

Sid had stared at him, speechless.

Mario shrugged. “I can’t read Ovechkin’s mind. But I think that, for many doms, it wouldn’t even occur to them to think of a sub as their rival. They just don’t take subs seriously enough for that thought to even cross their minds.”

Sid’s mind worked on that idea, ran it back and forth. Slowly, still not sure what to make of it, he’d said, “That’s true…”

“A rival is an equal,” Mario reminded him. “Someone who has a realistic chance of beating you every time you compete; someone close enough to your level that you can only defeat them by pushing yourself to the limit. If I were fifteen years younger…” He cracked a wry smile. “…it’s what I’d want Ovechkin to think of me.” He shrugged again, still smiling a little. “Just my two cents.”

He left Sid to think that all through, resting his hand briefly on Sid’s shoulder on his way out of the room.

When even some of Sid’s own teammates couldn’t seem to think of him as an equal, it was kind of hard to believe that an _opponent_ —a dom opponent, at that—could. But Mario’s logic was hard to argue with. A rival _is_ an equal, or the closest thing to it; at the very least, a _potential_ equal, which is more than most doms were willing to credit Sid with.

 _It’s still going to suck_ , Sid had thought, resentful – he’d known he wasn’t wrong about the practical effect of Ovechkin’s pronouncement, as far as media coverage of the two of them was concerned. But it was nice to think that there was a chance, however small, that somebody as talented and charismatic as Alexander Ovechkin could see beyond the difference in their dynamics to appreciate Sid’s own talent for what it was.

 

*

 

That summer after his first NHL season, Sid flits around a little: L.A. for a while, Cole Harbour for a while, Pittsburgh for a while. He catches up with Jack, does some fishing, and hangs out with Taylor – stuff that other people would think was boring, probably, but that makes Sid happy.

It’s easy, with Taylor. Some of that’s just because Taylor is Taylor, and she’s delightful, but some of it is because she’s a kid, and he loves hanging out with kids. Kids who haven’t come into their dynamic yet are free of all of the bullshit that goes with it; Sid’s not a sub to them, he’s just a hockey player. And that’s all he’s ever wanted.

That’s why it hurts so bad when Taylor announces at dinner, just before Sid’s birthday, “Um. I’m a dom. I thought—I thought you guys should know.”

 _Right_ , Sid thinks, trying to keep his face blank as Mom and Dad congratulate her. _It’s… it’s time for that, she’s twelve, this is the same age I told Dad I was a sub, it makes sense_ —

But it feels like something has cracked down the middle.

He keeps himself together well enough to say all the right stuff, offering to pay for an announcement party, anywhere she wants. They’re not a super-traditional family, so it would be a little weird to do it so formally, but it’s not like Sid doesn’t have the money.

Taylor shakes her head, though. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it,” she mutters, which Sid could have predicted – she’s still a little bit shy, like him. He wonders if that, too, will change now.

Out of nowhere, Sid thinks, _I wonder if Dad regrets investing in my hockey instead of hers, now that he knows she’s a dom_. The minute he has the thought, he’s ashamed of it: since the day he’d told Dad that he was a sub, Dad’s been nothing but supportive, nothing but proud. And there aren’t many more women in the NHL than there are subs – none on the Penguins last year, although that should change this year, after Agosta tore up all the postseason records in Wilkes-Barre last spring.

Later that night, Taylor knocks on the doorframe of Sid’s bedroom. “Can I come in?” she asks.

“Sure.” Sid is sitting in his favorite spot in the house: a big, squishy armchair right under the window. He has the window open right now, and there’s enough ambient light coming through that he’s not technically sitting in the dark, even though he hasn’t turned on the lamp.

Taylor joins him in the armchair, wedging herself between Sid’s side and the arm of the chair and resting her head on his shoulder. He drapes his arm around her and thinks, _This part hasn’t changed yet. She still fits here, next to me._

“You seemed kind of weird at dinner,” Taylor says, very quietly. “Is it—are you disappointed?”

“ _No_ ,” Sid says immediately, “no way.” However much he might have liked it, selfishly, if Taylor had been a sub like him, so they could have had that in common, he wouldn’t wish on Taylor even a fraction of the shit he’s had to wade through. He wants the best for her, and doms get the best of everything. So he’s glad. He _is_.

He’s shocked, then, when Taylor says, in a small voice, “ _I’m_ kind of disappointed.”

“Taylor…” Sid twists around in the chair to look his sister in the face. “Taylor, _why_?”

Without looking at him, she mumbles all in one breath, “At school everyone is being weird and the doms only want to be friends with doms now and the subs only want to be friends with subs and I don’t want you to stop being my friend because you’re the best person and I love you.”

“Oh, Taylor—” Sid pulls her into a hug, as hard as he can without crushing her. His eyes are stinging, but he blinks the tears away—when he was a kid, it scared him to see an adult cry, and he doesn’t want to scare Taylor. “ _You’re_ the best person,” he tells her in a fierce whisper, trying like hell to keep his voice steady, even though he knows she can feel the hitch in his breathing. “You’re the best person in the world, and I love you more than anyone, and I will always, _always_ be your friend.”

“Promise?” she asks in a wobbly voice.

“I promise.” He’d offer to pinky swear, like he did when she was little, but she’s probably too old for that now. “I swear on—on the Stanley Cup.”

“Sid!” Taylor giggles a little, scandalized. “You’ll jinx yourself!”

“Hey,” he says firmly, letting go enough that he can look her in the eyes, “that’s how important you are to me, okay?”

She gives him a soft, pleased smile. “Okay.” She snuggles back into his side, just like before, and lets out a long, relieved sigh. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. They just sit like that—quiet, listening to the crickets’ chirps coming through the window—until Taylor’s bedtime.

It’s pretty great.

 

*

 

The team Sid returns to after the summer looks a little different than the one he left, and shortly after he arrives, Mario tells him that they’re expecting one more new addition: the Pens’ number two pick, KHL star Evgeni Malkin.

When Malkin finally gets to Pittsburgh, Sid’s very excited—okay, Sid’s totally fucking psyched—about his hockey, but he doesn’t know what to expect on an interpersonal level.

They don’t exactly start out on the right foot. When Malkin arrives at Mario’s house on that first evening in town, he obviously assumes Sid is Mario’s: he keeps staring at Sid but asks Mario questions that are clearly meant for Sid instead, and he looks very surprised to see Sid sitting with his own plate at the dinner table instead of kneeling, or sitting at an empty spot next to Mario’s plate like Nathalie. At some point during dinner, Gonch must explain it to him, because he says something to Malkin that involves both Sid’s and Mario’s names, and makes Malkin look mortified. He seems off-balance for the whole rest of the meal, but he makes up for all the things he wasn’t saying to Sid before by bombarding him with compliments and questions as fast as Gonch can translate. After dinner, Sid overhears Gonch assuring Mario that he’ll be giving Malkin a crash course in North American etiquette, including the fact that it’s rude to talk about a sub like they’re not there unless the sub is kneeling. “In Russia, of course, it’s the opposite,” Gonch says wearily. “You talk to another dom’s sub direct, in social situation, it’s very rude unless you’re close friends or related.”

So it’s not a promising beginning. And then Malkin—Geno—wants to go out last, which had always been Sid’s spot. It’s a huge fucking headache: first of all, Sid just doesn’t want to give up his spot. But he knows that, no matter what he does here, he can’t win. If he cedes his spot, agrees that Geno can go out last, he’s weak and can’t be trusted not to cave whenever a dom challenges him. But if he refuses, he’s being a brat, a bitch, clinging to this one petty thing when any good sub would yield. Sid fucking hates it.

He dithers over what to do for hours, which isn’t like him. He finally tells Flower what’s going on, hoping he can get some advice, or at least a little sympathy, from the only other sub on the team. Flower’s response, though—damn him—is to march Sid straight over to Gonch’s apartment and bully him into explaining the problem to Gonch.

Gonch looks thoughtful for a long minute, and then pulls Geno out into the living room. After Gonch says whatever he says to Geno, Geno hangs his head and mumbles, “Sorry, Sid.”

It had crossed Sid’s mind that this whole thing might be Geno testing him – pushing to see whether he could get his way with a sub teammate. Looking at the miserable expression on Geno’s face, though, he can’t believe that.

“I say I… not want,” Geno gets out, haltingly. It takes Sid a minute to figure out what Geno means, but when he does, he’s touched.

“Thanks, Geno,” he says sincerely. “But that won’t help. You asked in front of the whole team, and a Pens TV crew – it’s going to get out.”

Gonch translates, and Geno groans, scrunching his eyes shut. “I stupid,” he berates himself. He opens his eyes and looks earnestly at Sid. “I want help,” he says, his tone implying _I just don’t know how_. Then an expression of cautious hope comes over his face, and he offers, “I say… is me three years Superleague?”

Again, it takes Sid a while to figure out what Geno’s getting at, but when he does, he can’t help smiling. “That’s… that’s a really good idea.” Even a dom would probably yield to another dom if that dom has seniority. Lots of people will still say it’s because Sid’s a sub, but Sid, frankly, can’t miss a shot without some reporter saying it’s because he’s a sub, so fuck it.

And it works, too, at least as much as Sid could have expected it to. Geno even comes up with a little handshake routine for them to do to help Sid replace the good luck of going out last… and when Sid edits the handshake routine by making clear—through Gonch—that Geno will _not_ be slapping Sid’s ass, or the asses of any other sub teammates, Geno takes it with good grace.

So not only does Geno not give Sid any trouble, he actually manages to treat Sid just like anybody else on the team, which Sid can’t get even most of the Canadians to do. Of course, the language barrier may have something to do with that, but… still. It’s nice.

 

*

 

When Therrien and Ray tell Sid, halfway through the season, that they want him to be captain, it’s unbelievable. Literally: he can’t comprehend it. He thinks they’re asking him to help them decide which dom on the team should be the next captain. He’s never been offered a letter, not even an A, although he knows Therrien wanted to give him one last year before getting shouted down by management.

When the magnitude of what they’re saying finally gets through his skull, though, he doesn’t hesitate, even knowing he’ll be the first sub in the NHL to wear the captain’s ring. This is what he’s wanted his whole life: to be given the chance to lead. He takes the ring and the C and the deluge that’s about to pour down over them all, and he doesn’t look back. He knows in his bones that if he turns it down—if he says he doesn’t feel ready yet, which in all honesty, he doesn’t—there won’t ever be another chance.

He can tell right away that it’s hard on the team, having a sub for a captain. For some of them, it’s hard taking direction from a sub, and Sid _does_ give direction; he’s not interested in being the kind of captain who’s nothing but a figurehead or a mascot. From the beginning, he sets out to _lead_ , on the ice and off of it.

For others, they don’t care about that part, but the crap they get in the press and on the ice wears them down. Over and over, the same question: what kind of dom lets a sub tell them what to do? And for Sid, again and again: what kind of sub would want to?

They’ve always said he’s weak, a crybaby, a whiner, a pet. Now that he’s irretrievably stepped out of line, he gets the rest of it, full force. He’s a bad sub, mouthy, a bitch, a brat, acting out for attention, playing at dominance, but only because he’s secretly yearning for some dom to put him back in his place.

Sid smiles for the cameras and minds his manners, and touches the ring around his finger, and it’s worth it. It’s all so, so worth it. He’s always known what the price would be for achieving his dreams. He’d pay it twice over, to have what he has now.

It has its upsides, too: the steady flow of teammates asking if he wants them to put him on his knees slows to a trickle, now that he’s in a position of authority over them. By the winter of 2007, after all the new doms on the team have asked once or twice and gotten it out of their systems, it dries up pretty much entirely, except for Brooksie. Sid loves Brooksie, but he’s given up hope that Brooksie will ever understand how it hurts Sid to be told again and again by someone he cares about that he’s not whole the way he is; that he isn’t qualified to decide for himself what—and who—he needs.

 _At least Brooksie’s the only one, now_ , Sid thinks, with relief. _At least the others have stopped._ It feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and his interactions with the rest of the team steadily get closer and more comfortable. He can trust them, now, in a way he couldn’t before.

That’s why, when it happens, it comes out of nowhere.

Geno trails Sid to his hotel room after they got blown out by the Bruins in December, and even though Sid never lets dom teammates in his room, he’s too beaten-down to enforce the rule right now, especially against Geno, who he knows is on his side.

“Bad game,” Geno says, eyes worried, once the door closes. Sid can’t argue with that.

Then, Geno offers, blushing a little and nodding at the floor in front of himself, “I help, maybe?”

Sid knows right away, of course, what this is. He’s seen it enough that he could probably recognize it in his sleep. He’s not used to it anymore, though – doesn’t have the thick skin that he once built up, so it hurts more than it should.

He takes a deep breath. “What kind of help?” he asks, keeping his face and voice neutral. He knows very well what kind of “help” Geno is offering, but he’s lost patience with the euphemism of it.

Geno looks frustrated— _what fucking right does he have_ , Sid thinks, furiously—but slowly, he says, “Dom help. Kneel help. Scene help, if you want.”

“I _don’t_ want,” Sid says, as calmly as he can. God, he wants to throw something—or throw up, maybe. Geno was supposed to be different. Sid thought he was different. “I don’t _ever_ want,” he says, a little louder. “I know doms can’t understand this, but _I don’t need a dom_. Not now. Maybe not ever,” he adds, sharply, voice rising, “and my problems can’t be solved by _sucking your dick!_ ” By the end, he’s shouting, and his chest is heaving. Geno looks horrified.

Sid sighs and tries to walk his frustration back. He’s never lost it at a teammate before, and it’s not right for him to make Geno the first, just because Sid had thought better of him. Geno didn’t ask for Sid to hold him to a higher standard. But still, it hurts. God, does it hurt.

Hoping against all odds for understanding, Sid asks, “What do I like, Geno?”

When Geno just stares, uncomprehending, Sid asks again, slowly, “What do I like?”

Hesitantly, Geno says, “Win. Goal. Penguins.”

“What else?”

“Flower,” Geno adds, watching Sid carefully. “Peanut butter. MarioKart. Family. Beat Flyers. Optional skate. Canada.”

 _Not a bad list_ , Sid thinks. Next, he asks, “Do I like to kneel, Geno?”

And he’ll give Geno this – he starts to say yes, but he stops himself. He thinks. And finally, he says, “Don’t know.”

“I am a sub,” Sid says. He feels so fucking exhausted. “But when people treat me like a sub, they stop treating me like a person.” He turns away, mostly just because he’s tired of keeping his misery off his face. “You know what I like. Everyone on the team knows what I like. But nobody offers me that stuff. Nobody says, ‘Rough game, Sid – you must want to play some Call of Duty,’ or ‘You must want a slice of cheesecake.’ Because everybody knows that what a sub _really_ wants is to kneel. No matter what the problem is, that’ll fix it. _You_ know,” he says, bitterly. “Because we’re all the same. And what _we_ want is always what _you_ want. Funny how that works.”

Geno comes around to look Sid in the face, which is the last thing Sid wants, pretty much. He asks Sid, “Other dom ask?” sounding surprised.

“Every dom on the fucking team,” Sid bites out. “Except the call-ups. And y—” But that’s not true anymore. God, that _really_ fucking hurts. Why does that hurt so much?

Geno looks taken aback at Sid’s answer, and… embarrassed, oddly. “Don’t know this,” he murmurs. “I think…” But he trails off, and never gets around to saying what he’d thought. He’s silent for a while, looking down at the carpet. Eventually, he looks up at Sid again.

“Don’t understand all,” Geno says quietly. “Bad English. Is like… go last?” he asks, and Sid doesn’t get it until Geno explains, “Like go last. Not try do bad. But do bad anyway.”

“I… yeah,” Sid says. “It’s like that. I know you were just trying to be nice. But. It’s not.”

Geno nods, accepting that. Voice still quiet, he asks, “I can touch?” and reaches a hand toward Sid’s shoulder. But Sid flinches back, and Geno drops his hand and answers his own question with a “No.” He looks hurt, but before Sid can apologize for something he shouldn’t fucking have to apologize for anyway, Geno nods again and says, like a promise, “I think more. And not ask, okay?”

Sid lets out a shaking breath. “Thank you.”

Geno shakes his head. “Not thank.” And then he’s gone.

Sid sags down onto the bed and puts his head in his hands. His stomach hurts. _That went… actually pretty okay_ , he thinks.

Still, the next morning, he’s worried that it’s going to be weird. But Geno seems like his normal morning-bleary self as they shuffle onto the bus. As he walks past Sid toward his seat near the back, Geno mumbles, “Sorry, Sid,” and slips something into Sid’s jacket pocket. Whatever it is, it makes a crinkly sound.

Sid doesn’t find out what it is until they’re on the plane and Flower is asleep next to him. Once he’s sure no one’s looking, he reaches into his pocket and cautiously pulls it out. In his palm is a single Reese’s peanut butter cup, its wrapper still crisp and glossy.

 

*

 

It’s difficult, after that. Because Sid starts noticing things: that Geno never talks about what his subs are like in bed in the locker room, or that Geno never leers at sub fans or grabs their wrists, the way that some doms do. Or other kinds of things: the strength and dexterity in Geno’s big hands, and the way he sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth when he’s amused by one of his own jokes.

Living in a small world like the NHL, Sid can’t help knowing other players’ reputations: which doms other doms respect, which subs other doms like, which adynamics will sub or dom for the right person, and which ones won’t. At least half of it has to be bullshit, he thinks, because for a lot of this stuff, how would people even know? But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear it. And so he can’t help knowing that Geno’s rep is as a good dom, in general, although sometimes other doms call him a “service top” with a little bit of sneer, as if they think that’s not a good thing to be.

Sid steadfastly, resolutely, does not think about it. He can do that: block things out. He’s been doing it his whole life. This isn’t something he should be spending any thought on, for so many reasons: he doesn’t need a dom, doesn’t want a dom, can’t have one anyway. Even if he could it wouldn’t be a teammate, and even if it could be a teammate it wouldn’t be Geno. If he really is a good dom, then he wouldn’t want a broken, stunted sub like Sid, and if he isn’t, then Sid wouldn’t want _him_.

So Sid cuts off the noticing, prunes it away like an unruly branch. Geno is a teammate, and a friend, and a trustworthy dom who won’t be shitty to Sid or tell jokes about him behind his back. His big, warm hands that would feel so good wrapped around Sid’s wrists or cupped over the back of his neck… they go away. When Sid looks at Geno’s hands now, he sees only what they can do on the ice. That’s what matters.

 

*

 

As the Pens are on the verge of locking up a playoff spot, they play an especially hard-fought game with Buffalo, which is on its way to the President’s Trophy. It’s one of those games where the luck goes back and forth, sending the game lurching in one team’s direction and then the other. After two puck-over-the-glass penalties in the third period, Sid starts to think they’ve gotten on the hockey gods’ bad side permanently… but in the final minute of the period, Pominville’s clearing attempt goes off MacArthur’s stick and past Miller, right into their own goal, sending the game to overtime.

“Fuck _everything_ ,” Sid hears Pominville moaning on the way back to the bench, which—yeah, Sid would be saying exactly the same, if it had been him.

Overtime goes nowhere, just trading not-very-close chances, and then it’s the shoot-out. Geno and Talbo can’t get past Miller, but Flower stands tall against all three Buffalo skaters, so it’s down to Sid. He has the easiest job, of course: he got to watch Geno’s and Talbo’s shots and learn from them. Sid glides toward the goal, smooth as a shark, keeping his hands loose, and just as Miller thinks Sid’s gone too far forward to make the angle, Sid flips a backhander over Miller’s shoulder, short side.

The crowd loves it, which feels pretty great, and the team gives Sid some love, which he tries to deflect onto Flower – after all, if Flower hadn’t stopped all three of Buffalo’s shots, Sid’s goal wouldn’t have been enough. It’s probably one of Sid’s better games as a Penguin, and he feels like he’s glowing as he heads down the tunnel.

For once, he’s actually a little bit excited to talk to the media, glad for the chance to talk up Flower’s big saves. As he stuffs his baseball cap on his head, one of the national reporters opens up the questioning. “Miller stonewalled Talbot and Malkin, but your shot got through. Do you think Miller went easy on you because you’re both subs?”

Sid has to run the question back through his mind several times just to understand what the reporter is asking, and then a few more times to believe that she actually asked it. He’s so shocked that he actually says some of what he’s really thinking. “That’s a really stupid question,” he says blankly. “Of course Miller didn’t go easy on me – not for any reason. He’s a professional, and he’s a hockey player, and he wants to win as bad as any of the rest of us. His dynamic—and mine—doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

It’s more than stupid, it’s offensive—to Sid, by implying that he didn’t get the game-winner fairly, and to Miller, by assuming he let his personal feelings interfere with his job—but Sid doesn’t have the words to try to object to it on that level, and he’s not sure he’d have the guts to do it even if he _did_ feel equipped.

The press had visibly flinched when he said the word “stupid,” but the reporter who asked the original question just gives him a narrow-eyed, amused look. Mildly, as if Sid’s a child who’s thrown a temper tantrum, she says, “It’s just a question, Sid. You don’t have to sass me.”

For almost the first time in his life, Sid stands in front of the press and has no idea what expression is on his face.

The one thing he is sure of right now is that he can’t— _cannot_ —say what he wants to say, which is: _I didn’t sass you, because I_ couldn’t _sass you, because we don’t have the kind of relationship where ‘sass’ even comes into it, because you don’t have any fucking authority over me, because I don’t belong to you, because I don’t belong to_ anyone _, because I will_ never _belong to anyone, because there is no dom in this entire fucking world that I trust not to say to me the thing that you just said to me._

That is what Sid wants to say.

But he can’t say that. Not any of that. And that’s because he knows deep in his heart that this is his fault. All of it. Because he forgot. He forgot the simplest, most basic truths of being a submissive in the time and place into which he was born. _Personality is sass. Passion is sass. Speaking up is talking back. Honesty is disrespect_.

And if he had ever been stupid enough to think—to hope—that it might be different in the NHL, that it might be different if he was an NHL _captain_ , even…

Well, he’s just been given a real good reminder of how stupid that really was. It never changes. He’ll be seventy fucking years old, and if he raises his voice some dom will start lecturing him about backtalk. He should have known better. He should have fucking known better.

So he lowers his eyes, and speaks in his best submissive murmur. “Of course. I assure you that I treat each question with the respect that it deserves.”

That was _not_ what he had planned to say, and it was just piling stupid on stupid, because even though the reporter in question doesn’t seem to have realized that Sid just insulted her, there’s going to be somebody on the internet who will, and they’re going to explain it to everybody else, and then Sid bratting with the media is all anyone is going to be able to talk about for two solid weeks.

Jen clears away the reporters as efficiently and politely as always. She doesn’t say anything bad to Sid, even though God knows he deserves it, forgetting all of his training the way he did.

He knows some of the team had to have overheard that, but he hopes against hope that they can just wait until he leaves and then talk about it behind his back. _That’s how you_ know _I’m desperate_ , he thinks, a little hysterically, _is_ _when I actually_ want _the team to talk about me behind my back_.

Just as he’s lacing up his shoes, just when he thinks he’s going to get off scot free, Talbo stops in front of his stall and says, in what he probably thinks is a sensitive and supportive tone of voice, “Hey. That reporter shouldn’t have talked to you that way.”

Sid stares down at his shoelaces. “What way?” he asks, all the while thinking fiercely, _Don’t, Sid, don’t, don’t, don’t you dare, get yourself under control—_

Obviously taken aback, Talbo fumbles for words. “Just, um, the way…”

It’s like Sid’s not even in control of his mouth anymore. “You mean, the way you joke all the time about how my ass is made to be spanked?”

You could hear a pin drop in that locker room.

Feebly, Talbo tries, “But that’s, like… nice, it’s a compliment. It’s different.”

“Sure,” Sid says, standing up. He wants more than anything to just get the hell out, but he knows he has to try to salvage this situation in some way, however perfunctory. “I shouldn’t have said that,” is what he manages, which, unlike all the other true things he’s said tonight, is unquestionably a mature and professional thing to say. “Please just… forget I said it. I was… I’m tired.”

Sid should say more—he should fucking _apologize_ , is what he should do—but he can’t bring himself to, so he just turns on his heel and leaves.

He keeps his shit together as he walks through Consol, as he gets to player parking, as he searches for his car— _why can I never find my fucking car right away?_ —as he fumbles for his keys—

He hears a sound behind him and turns to see who’s there, hoping it’s not anybody from the team, and at bare minimum, at least not Talbo.

He doesn’t get everything he wants: it’s not Talbo, but it is Flower and Geno, both looking concerned.

“I’m sorry,” Sid says, unsteady. He couldn’t bring himself to apologize to Talbo for telling the truth, but he can apologize to these two for being immature and fucking up the team dynamics. “That wasn’t like me, I know that—”

“Don’t apologize, Sid,” Flower starts.

But Sid shakes his head. “I’m gonna just go home, guys, I don’t feel up to… whatever this is,” he says, waving his hands at the two of them. _An intervention, probably_ , he thinks.

“We’re not gonna just let you go home alone after that, Sid,” Flower says, reproachfully.

“Both want to help,” Geno says, giving Sid puppy eyes. “Flower say right things in English,” he explains, “and I’m beat up anybody try come talk to you.”

That gets a smile out of Sid, unwilling though it is.

“Hey, come here,” Flower urges, holding out his arms and motioning Sid closer. “You look like you need a hug.”

Frankly, Sid _feels_ like he needs a hug… but he holds back. He knows he hasn’t done anything to earn that comfort. “It’s stupid,” he says, low. “I should have known better, I should have—I don’t know why I can’t fucking let things slide—”

“You let _a lot_ of things slide,” Flower says, giving him an even look. Sid can’t read it. “More than is good for you, maybe.”

“B-because I have no choice,” Sid stammers, not sure what Flower means. “Tonight just shows that, it shows how—how little I’m ever allowed to be—”

Flower’s eyelids flutter half-shut, as if he’s in pain. “You are so much, Sid,” he says quietly. “You are—”

“I would be. If I was allowed to be,” Sid says, bitter. “If they wouldn’t—” He shivers violently, all of a sudden. “If they wouldn’t keep shoving me into this idea they have of what a sub is, squeezing me into this tiny box over and over again—” His hands are clamped around his elbows now, his shoulders curving in and in until it hurts – it _feels_ like he’s being squeezed all of a sudden, like a horrible pressure on his chest, making it hard to breathe. “—crushing me smaller and smaller and smaller until there’s nothing _left_ of me, Flower—”

“Sid…” Flower shakes his head, but not like he disagrees.

“Until I’m not even a _person_ ,” Sid finishes, feeling like the words have been torn out of him, all the way up from his gut. “Until I’m not me, I’m not Sid, I’m just a—a _thing_ that walks and talks and plays hockey and looks at the ground and is _dead_ inside—” A sob rips its way out of Sid’s throat. His hands ache where they’re gripping his elbows. He’s never said these things to another living soul. He didn’t even really know that he thought them, until they came pouring out, and he realized that they’d been living in his blood all along. “—I’m not even allowed to be a human being – just a _thing_ , an object, for them to judge, and hurt, and fuck, and laugh at, and use up—”

“Oh, Sid, _mon cheri_ ,” Flower whispers. His eyes are wide and wet. “Oh _, mon trèsor_ – come here, Sid, come here, let me—” He delicately wraps his long arms around Sid; Sid knows Flower is strong, but his touch is light, so light. It feels good.

As Sid shakes in Flower’s arms, he hears noise, people approaching, and he tries to pull back, panicking. But Flower just says calmly, “Unlock the car, Sid. We’ll get inside and close the door, and Geno will keep them away, okay?”

“Right, yeah…” Sid fumbles for his car keys and presses the button to unlock the car, suddenly swamped with the terrifying realization that Geno heard every fucking word of Sid having some kind of—of fucking breakdown—

 _But he probably didn’t understand any of it_ , Sid tells himself, hoping against hope. _His English is still mostly shit, and I was talking really fast and quietly so it’s fine. It’s fine._

Flower chivvies Sid into the back seat and shuts the door behind them. Then he motions for Sid to come closer again, guiding Sid’s head to rest on his shoulder. “It’s okay, _mon cheri_ ,” he murmurs. “Or—it’s not. But you will be. You’ll be okay.”

Sid stays very still, looking out the car windows, but nobody approaches, and after a minute, Geno knocks on the door and says, “Training staff. Nobody try find Sid yet.”

“Thanks, Geno,” Flower says, pitching his voice loud enough to make it heard outside the car.

“I can’t believe I said all that stuff,” Sid mutters. He feels a little calmer now, with the car as a barrier between him and the outside world. He takes some deep breaths, trying to keep them slow and steady, and that helps, too.

“It’s hard, _mon cheri_ ,” Flower says softly, running his fingers through Sid’s hair. “It’s hard for all of us. And you can’t be thinking about how hard it is every moment of every day, or your heart will stop. But you have to think about it sometimes. And you can always talk about it with me, _mon cheri_. Always.”

Sid picks his head up from Flower’s shoulder, wincing a little when his hair gets stuck in the buckle of Flower’s collar. “Thank you,” he whispers, throat tight. He wants to say more than that, to really tell Flower how much it means to have someone here in Pittsburgh who Sid can trust completely with everything he is, but he doesn’t trust his stupid words tonight. They’ve already come out wrong so many times. Instead, he sighs and tells Flower, “God, I fucked up so many times tonight. And I was feeling so good, too, right after the game…”

Flower’s eyebrows draw together, and his chin juts out. “I don’t think you fucked up at all,” he says. “I think you said exactly what you should have said—”

“Come on, Flower.” Sid rolls his eyes. “Bare minimum, I shouldn’t have called that reporter’s question stupid – that was unreasonable—”

“Unreasonable?” The look Flower gives Sid is almost angry. “Sid, you were standing up for Miller – standing up for _subs_ , for all of us. How is that ‘unreasonable’?” Flower ducks his head to hold Sid’s gaze. “Come on, Sid: if I let in a goal by a sub, and somebody asked them this kind of stupid, offensive question about me, I would want them to stand up for me, you know? Wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” Sid admits. Shit, if someone had said that about _Flower_ , Sid would probably have done a lot worse than call the question stupid. And yeah, now that he’s thinking about it that way, if he _hadn’t_ scored on Miller tonight, and someone had asked Miller whether he thought _Sid_ had gone easy on _him_ , Sid would have wanted Miller to push back, too. He wouldn’t have _expected_ it, by any means. But that’s what he would have hoped for.

Flower’s not done. “You _had_ to,” he says intensely. “When they come at us, we have to stand up for each other. No one else is going to. You know that.”

“I do,” Sid agrees, the words scorching their way out of his mouth.

“Doms think we should stand back, let them take care of it—” Flower makes a rude noise. “Half the time, they don’t even know what’s fucked up and what’s not.” He sighs, and shoots Sid a rueful look. “That’s the problem with Talbo, right there.”

Sid groans at the reminder. “Oh, shit – I almost forgot I fucking yelled at Talbo—”

“You didn’t yell at Talbo,” Flower says calmly. “You used your normal voice—”

“Oh, come on, I fucking called him out—”

Flower nods. “Yeah, you did. And it was good for him. Good for the whole team,” he adds.

Sid must not look convinced, because Flower pushes the button to roll down the window halfway and sticks his head out to ask Geno, “Hey, Geno, tell Sid what was going on in the locker room when we left.”

Geno bends down to peer through the window. When he sees Sid, he says, hesitantly, “When we leave, everybody talking, talking… is good.”

Sid doesn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, everybody’s talking?” he asks, thinking, _This is what you get for hoping they would talk about you behind your back, dumbass…_

Flower says, “No, it’s good – good talking. About important stuff, you know, like: what’s okay to say to you, what’s okay to say _about_ you, or about me or T-Bo, or just, like, subs in general. The kind of talk that’s been a long fucking time coming if you ask me.”

Geno chimes in, “T-Bo tell Talbo he stupid. Gonch help. Talking start there, but then not stop, talk about more things. Is good, Sid, really,” he adds anxiously, hunching down further to try to meet Sid’s eyes through the car window.

If Thibault’s handling it, that’s probably okay… but it’s not cool for Sid and Flower to make him take that on all by himself. Sid bites his lip and says, “If they’re talking about that stuff, about—Flower, you should be there—”

“No, I should be here,” Flower says firmly, cutting him off. “You’re important, too, Sid. I wasn’t going to let you just go home alone after that, with how upset you were—”

“Lots of team want to come,” Geno volunteers. “Jordy, Aggie, Whits… Flower tell them no, they probably just make you more sad, they need stay and learn not be shitheads instead.”

Sid considers that. It does feel good to know that his teammates wanted to come check on him, make sure that he was okay. But ultimately, he’s glad it was just Flower. There are doms on the team that Sid trusts, like Gonch and Agosta… but trusting a dom, as far as Sid’s concerned, always comes with an asterisk. Which reminds him of something. He says to Flower, “But you let Geno come with you.”

Flower glances at Geno and shrugs. “I needed a dom to tell the other doms to fuck off if they tried to follow me, and Gonch and Aggie needed to be doing what they were doing, pulling heads out of asses.”

Sid can see the sense in that, but he doesn’t like it. “You shouldn’t need a dom to speak for you to get other doms to listen.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” Flower replies, holding Sid’s gaze. His voice is low and even. “But I do. So I got one. We all make compromises, Sid.”

“Yeah,” Sid whispers. “But I wish that it—”

Geno makes a sharp noise, and he turns away from the open car window. “Team coming,” he says, low. “You go, okay, Sid? Flower, you go?” he asks, giving Sid a plainly worried look. “Not good Sid is alone.”

“I’ll go with him, yeah,” Flower says. “Thanks, G. Sid, you should get in the driver’s seat before everybody gets here.”

Sid gets situated and turns the engine on. In the rearview mirror, he can see Talbo and Jordy arguing with Geno, and he feels a little guilty about leaving Geno to deal with it on his own… but Geno seemed happy to do it. _Doms like stuff like this_ , Sid reminds himself. _It’s not all lewd remarks and ass-slapping. They like being protective, too. The good ones, anyway._

Flower calls Vero in the car on the way to Mario’s house and gives her a summary of what happened, then asks her permission to spend the night with Sid.

Sid knows that that’s totally normal, that it makes Flower feel good, even. But he can’t imagine living that way himself: letting somebody else decide where he goes and what he does. Putting all of his effort into keeping his face and voice neutral, he asks Flower, “What if she’d said no?”

Flower looks at him like he’d started speaking Greek. Slowly, as if he’s speaking to someone not in touch with reality, Flower says, “She wouldn’t say no. I’m not spending the night at your place to, like, have an orgy, or juggle chainsaws, or something. I’m taking care of a friend.”

Since he’s already established that he can’t control what comes out of his mouth tonight, Sid persists, “But what if she did say no?” _Would you leave me?_ he doesn’t say, because he’s not quite that pathetic.

“Then I would explain to her why it’s really important, and she would change her mind,” Flower answers, eyebrows still raised. “And if she didn’t change her mind, then I would say, ‘I’m calling the police to come arrest you, strange woman, for impersonating my dom and stealing her phone.’”

Well, that makes Sid feel a little better – that Flower would stay with him even if Vero said no. But that just leaves him with another question. “What’s the point of asking for her permission if you’re still going to come home with me even if she says no?” he asks, perplexed.

Flower seems equally perplexed – then, suddenly, something like pity comes over his face, and he reaches up to brush his fingertips absently over his collar. “The point,” he says gently, “is that I show her I trust her to support what I’m doing if it’s good—and I give her the chance to stop me if I _am_ going to go juggle chainsaws or drive drunk or something. And she shows me that she trusts me to tell her the truth about where I am and who I’m with, and she gets the chance to tell me how she feels about what I’m doing. Like just now – she told me how proud she was of me for being a good friend,” he tells Sid, with a soft smile. Then his smile quirks into a grin. “Also, she offered to punch Talbo for you, just so you know.”

Sid gives Flower a tiny smile in return. He still can’t say he understands it all—the asking permission thing—but he can see the appeal of some parts of it. It would be nice to have somebody say they’re proud of him. That part, at least, he thinks he would like.

The next day, Sid has to handle a stream of teammates meandering over to him, shame-faced, to apologize for various off-color comments they’ve made, sometimes not even to _him_. Jordy even apologizes to Sid for grabbing a sub classmate’s ass in high school, which, look, Sid’s glad that he’s realized that was fucked up, but he doesn’t see the point in Jordy apologizing to Sid for something that happened to a totally different person before he even _met_ Sid.

Geno doesn’t apologize—which Sid thinks is fair, since Geno already apologized at the time for the only shitty thing he’s ever said to Sid—but Sid does find little candy bars stuffed into his gear, his pockets, and even a Twix bar in his left skate. He’s not at all sure how Geno pulled that one off. After practice, he borrows Geno from Gonch, holds up one of the Milky Ways, and raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t do anything wrong, G.”

Geno shrugs, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe,” he says softly. “Don’t know. But I know you sad, hurt, feel very bad. I hear—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “I want make happy and I think candy make happy. Maybe just little happy, but.” Looking oddly fragile for a guy who’s so strong on the puck, he says, “I don’t know how make big happy.” It’s so quiet that it’s almost a breath. He huffs out a sigh, and continues, “So I try little happy. Maybe is stupid, but.” He looks up at Sid and shrugs again.

“It’s not stupid,” Sid says, touched. He can’t believe Geno listened, let alone _remembered_ – that rant Sid went on about how people never offer him the stuff that really makes him feel better was months ago. But he can see Geno took it to heart, and that means a lot. He tells Geno, truthfully, “It did make me happy.”

Geno perks up a little. “Yes?” he says hopefully.

“Yeah.” Sid smiles. “But you know if I eat all these, the _trainers_ are _not_ going to be happy.”

Geno gives him a sly look. “ _I’m_ not say.”

“You could do that,” Sid agrees. Then he holds out the Milky Way he’s holding. “Or… you could help me eat them.”

Geno takes the candy bar with good cheer. “If trainers yell, yell at me, too – yes, good plan.”

“Works for me,” Sid announces, opening up a Twix bar for himself. There’s kind of a funny feeling in his chest—something warm and melting that intensifies when he looks at Geno—but he’s well-practiced at ignoring that kind of thing by now. This—taking a big, sweet bite of forbidden sugar while Geno grins at him and does the same—is as good as it gets. And it’s pretty damn good.

 

*

 

Although Sid doesn’t hold out any great hopes at first, it does actually get easier after that. The team gets better about the way they talk about subs, and especially about Sid. And when somebody says something out of line, it doesn’t fall to him every time to call it out; more and more, one of the other doms on the team will shut it down before Sid has to. There’s still a fair amount of raunchy talk about hookups and partners, enough to make him uncomfortable, but it stays away from Sid or the goalies or any of the team staff.

It takes time for him to trust the change, and trust that it will last, but when he does, it’s crazy how free it makes him feel. He hadn’t realized how much of his energy was spent holding a defensive posture against the very people who were supposed to be in the trenches with him. He doesn’t let down his guard all the way—the expressly shitty comments are basically gone, but the subtler stuff is still there, and probably always will be—but at least he feels like he can breathe in his own fucking locker room.

And now that his authority isn’t being openly undermined by being treated like a piece of meat, he can feel himself becoming a better captain, too. He sets the tone in the locker room, now, and on the bench. And when Sid overhears Ouellet telling the Bruins’ rookie sniper after a slash that he’s “gonna get twenty more like that with a paddle” if he doesn’t “shut that bitch mouth,” Sid tears him a new asshole right there on the bench.

“Listen up, fuckwad: _We. Don’t. Fucking. Do. That,_ ” he snarls. “I get that shit fifty fucking times a game, but we’re fucking _better_ than that! So fucking act like it!”

Ouellet doesn’t like it— _goddamn_ does he not like it—but he zips it for the rest of the game. He respects Sid’s authority as captain, even if he grits his teeth the whole time. And afterward, in the locker room, Sid takes it as a teachable moment to set the standard for _everybody_ on the team.

“We’re gonna be better,” he tells them, taking the time to look each player in the eye. “You want to chirp a sub on another team, be my guest. But you keep their dynamic out of it. It really fucking sucks, hearing that stuff. It’s got no place in our game. Not in Penguins hockey.”

It’s scary, drawing attention to his own dynamic that way in front of the team, but it’s worth it. He gets some grumbling, but no open dissent, and he sees a lot of heads nodding, too. It feels good. It feels like he’s—finally, finally—getting somewhere.

 

*

 

As the playoffs approach, Sid starts getting asked questions about the Art Ross, which he’s on pace to win.

When Geno overhears the questions, he gets super excited, and pesters Sid into admitting that _he’s_ actually kind of excited, too.

Geno doesn’t seem to think that’s weird or that Sid shouldn’t be focused on any trophy but the Stanley Cup (which is Sid’s standard media answer). He’s practically bouncing in his seat with enthusiasm as the bus winds its way toward their Montreal hotel. “Of course you excite!” he says, as if it’s obvious. “How anybody _not_ excite about win award is win by so many best players? Lemieux, Gretzky, Jagr…”

“Yeah, that would be cool,” Sid replies, smiling. “It’s also, like… the only award I _can_ win, so I don’t want to miss out on it, you know?”

Geno looks confused. “What you mean, only award you can win? Sid, you gonna win Hart this year, Pearson… not Richard this year but maybe next year—”

Sid feels a little twist of an ache just beneath his breastbone. As gently as he can, he says, “Geno, I’m not gonna win the Hart or the Pearson. Not this year – not any year.”

Geno blinks. Hesitantly, he says, “Sid, you… you best. For sure you gonna win – maybe this year no, because people think maybe you too young, but… for sure, Sid, for sure you gonna win—”

The ache deepens; Sid almost rubs his chest right over where he feels it, but stops himself. It’s not a physical pain. Still trying to couch this as kindly as he can, the way a grown-up would break the news that Santa Claus isn’t real, he tells Geno, “G, no sub has ever won the Hart, or the Pearson, or the Norris, or the Selke. Those awards are for doms. Or, I guess, adynamics, sometimes,” he adds, because Hasek won the Pearson a couple times.

He’s surprised, a little, that Geno’s didn’t already know this—but probably he shouldn’t be. Doms don’t look at a list with only other doms on it and wonder where the subs are. Their brains just don’t work that way. The absences that loom so large in Sid’s sight are invisible to them. It must be nice, Sid thinks.

Geno’s mouth opens and closes a few times. Then the line of his jaw hardens and he says stubbornly, “Sub don’t win _before_ , but is not mean you don’t win – other subs before just not good enough, is—”

Something in Sid’s expression must tell Geno he’s made a mistake; his voice dies and his mouth snaps shut.

“Subs just aren’t good enough, huh?” Sid says tightly. “For ninety fucking years, not a single sub in this league has ever been good enough? Not even the ones who won the Vezina? Not even the ones who won the Art Ross or the Rocket Richard? Yeah, that’s gotta be it,” he says as the bus rolls to a stop outside their hotel. “Subs just suck. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

He’s up and out of his seat before the bus door even opens, grabbing his bag and trying to make a break for the door before Geno can follow him.

Of course, the fact that they had this conversation on the fucking team bus means that everybody in a ten-foot radius has an opinion about it, and poor, dumb Jordy grabs Sid’s wrist—already a bad move—and tells him, “Sid, come on, you know you’re different. You’re not like those other subs.”

Sid holds perfectly still. He drops his gaze to Jordy’s hand and stares at it until Jordy shivers and takes his hand back. Then he looks Jordy in the eye and says clearly, “That’s the worst fucking thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The team gives him his space on the way down the aisle, and he’s the first one off the bus. He goes straight to his hotel room and tries to decide whether it’s worth calling Jack just to say, “Doms are the fucking worst.” Probably not. It’s not like Jack doesn’t know.

 _It was going better_ , Sid thinks, sinking down to sit at the foot of the hotel bed. His eyes are hot and scratchy. _It_ is _better, come on. This is little stuff. You wouldn’t even have noticed this stuff back at the beginning, when they were all trying to get you on your knees or on their jocks._

He knows that’s right. He knows that there’s a sliding scale of dom shit, and he and the team have slid a long way down that scale from where they used to be. But weirdly, that doesn’t make it hurt any less. His tolerance for pain has changed, too… or maybe as he gets older and all this little shit scrapes away at him, his protective coating gets worn away and every blow lands on softer, more tender skin. _I’m only nineteen_ , he thinks, pressing his hands over his face. _I’ve got to build some of that protective coating up again, or I’m gonna be twenty-five and just one big raw, exposed nerve._

There’s a knock at the door. Sid sighs and goes to see who it is. He’s hoping for Flower, but when he looks through the peephole, it’s Geno, looking hangdog.

As soon as Sid opens the door, Geno says, “I suck. I suck and I’m sorry, and I say stupid because I don’t think.” He holds out… a DVD? Yeah, it’s a DVD. “I know you like beat Flyers so I bring tape of Rangers blow out Flyers for make you happy and say sorry.”

As angry and exhausted as Sid is, he can’t help laughing at that. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the DVD. “Do you want to come in?”

Geno shuffles through the door and Sid lets it almost shut behind him, wedging the doorstop in just a couple of inches before the doorframe. There are two dangers that can come from being alone with a dom teammate in his hotel room with the door closed, and while Sid trusts Geno enough that he’s not worried about the first one, the risk of scandal is one that no amount of trust can mitigate.

He motions for Geno to sit in the desk chair, and returns to his spot at the foot of the bed.

Geno sits, and then, fidgeting with a pen he picked up from desk, says, “Want to explain, apologize. But if you don’t want listen, is okay.”

“I can listen,” Sid says. He doesn’t particularly want to, but he likes Geno, trusts Geno. Everybody says stupid shit sometimes. If he was the one who said something stupid, he’d want whoever heard it to give him a second chance.

“Thank you.” Geno nods. “So what I think before, on bus, is this: no subs win before, yes. But no subs before as good as Gretzky. And Sid is as good as Gretzky—”

Sid’s face flames and he makes a noise of protest, but Geno shakes his head and insists, “Is. So what I think is even if other sub don’t win, still Sid win because is in, um, special level? Don’t know how to say. Gretzky, Lemieux, Jagr level. And Sid also is there and other subs not, not yet.”

Sid opens his mouth to point out the flaw in this argument, but Geno beats him to it.

“But problem is,” he continues, “dom not have to be as good as Gretzky for win trophy. Doms not in this level win Hart, win Pearson. And is bullshit if sub have to be as good as Gretzky to win but dom not. Not fair.”

Sid lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Basically. It’s not.”

Geno nods again, satisfied. “If I take time, think, I can think right,” he says, half to himself. “But is work, and if I don’t do, I say stupid. I remember this.” Then he fixes his gaze on Sid again. “So I think I understand part, but… don’t understand all. Don’t understand _why_. _Why_ subs not win Hart and Pearson? Why subs not win Norris or Selke or Calder? But yes win Vezina, Lord Byng, Richard, Art Ross?”

Sid sighs. “Are you asking, like, why _practically_ does that happen? Like, what causes it in the voting?”

“Yes, Sid.”

Sid leans back on his hands while he gathers his thoughts. “Okay, so the Art Ross and the Richard – those are just counting awards. If a sub scores the most points, they win the Art Ross. Done. So even if all the media and all the other players think subs are shit, well, too fucking bad: if I have the most points, I win, and that’s the end of it. But the others are voted on. They’re a matter of opinion: whether you win doesn’t depend on what you _do_ , it depends on what other people think about you. And even the best sub is only that: the best sub. Really good, an amazing talent… you know, for a sub. That’s how people think of it – most of the time, I don’t even think they know they’re doing it, but… it sucks.”

Geno chews on that for a minute. Half-heartedly, he says, “Vezina—”

“Is for goalies. It’s okay for subs to be goalies. Everybody knows that.”

“And Lord Byng…”

Sid rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you can tell how little that one matters because they named it after a sub. That’s the bone they throw us for behaving like good little submissives on the ice.”

Geno hunches over in the desk chair, looking troubled. Sid lets him think. Eventually, Geno says quietly, “Martin St. Louis.”

“Yeah,” Sid replies, breathing out an old disappointment that still feels fresh.

“He win Art Ross, have best season, 04-05,” Geno says to the floor. “But not win Hart, not win Pearson.”

“Yeah.” Sid tips over until he’s lying on his side facing Geno. “That’ll be me this year, if I do get the Art Ross.” He’s trying for a resigned, philosophical tone, but it comes out almost as disappointed as he feels.

Geno’s brow furrows – he looks upset. “No,” he insists. “Voting is unfair – yes. I understand now. But you so good, you make even shitheads vote for you. You so good, you _beat_ unfair voting. I _know_ this.”

Through the cracked-open door, Sid hears Jordy’s voice yelling, “That’s what I was trying to say before, in like the worst possible way, which Flower explained to me, so sorry about that, but Geno’s right!”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sid groans, mortified. He shouts back, “Give me some fucking privacy, you weirdo— _all_ you weirdos,” he amends. “I know there’s more than one of you out there!”

He actually doesn’t know that for sure, but he knows his team and how fucking nosy they are.

He’s rewarded by a mutter of “How does he _know_?” and a mass of shuffling and creaking sounds outside the door.

They’ll be back before too long—they won’t be able to resist—so it’s time to wrap this conversation up. He props himself up on his elbow to look at Geno. “You really think that?” Sid doesn’t – not for a minute. But it’s sweet that Geno does.

“Not think,” Geno corrects, firmly. “I _know_.”

Sid smiles at him. Softly, he says, “I hope you’re right.”

“Have to thank me in your speech,” Geno demands, giving Sid his best cheeky grin.

“Oh, for sure,” Sid promises, grinning back.

This presents something of a problem when the actual awards ceremony rolls around. Sid has been nominated for both the Hart and the Pearson, but since he knows he’s not going to win, the only “speech” he prepares for either of them is a notecard that says: “Sid’s speech: I want to thank Geno Malkin,” which he brings to the ceremony to show Geno as a joke.

It’s significantly less funny when they actually _do_ call his name for the Pearson, and he’s stuck there up on stage with no speech except “I want to thank Geno Malkin.” He could just read his Art Ross speech again, but that would be boring and probably also just, like… bad form. Shit.

He clears his throat. “I want to thank Geno Malkin,” he starts, praying that his public-speaking training will kick in and rescue him. “For… for believing in me when I was having a hard time believing in—” _all of you_ “—myself.” He can’t mention just Geno without people thinking they’re fucking, so he goes on to thank Flower, which is also just a good idea from a general gratitude standpoint, since he would actually have gone crazy this year without Flower.

“I want to thank—really _all_ my teammates,” he continues. “They’ve been so supportive this year—” which, for all of their little everyday failings, is still basically true. He gets distracted with that little stuff, and the little stuff matters, too… but that’s still pretty cool, that his team has been willing to grow and change for him, and he hasn’t really appreciated that until this moment.

This moment…

There’s something in particular about _this_ moment. And that’s the core of the next, and last, thing that Sid wants to say.

Because Sid, without knowing it was coming, has stumbled his way into a little piece of history. Drawing attention to it goes against every instinct he has: his whole short career, he’s fought for the right to _not_ be defined by his dynamic. But he thinks about Taylor telling him about the way her dom classmates didn’t want to be friends with subs anymore, even though they were just kids, and how shitty other kids were to _him_ when he was that age, and he thinks, _Yeah. I’ve gotta go for it._

His throat suddenly dry and his pulse racing, Sid says, “As I’m standing here in front of you, I’m also keenly aware—” He suppresses a preemptive wince. “—that I’m the first submissive to win this award. Ever.” That gets a murmur from the crowd, which is pretty funny – it’s not like anybody out there didn’t _know_. Even if somebody hadn’t known when they voted, all the awards preview articles mentioned it. He’s guessing the murmur is just for the fact that he was bold enough to mention it. “And I just want to say for anybody who’s watching,” he continues, “especially any kids: if anybody’s ever told you that you’re not going to amount to anything in this sport because of the way you are… well, people told me that, too. And here I am. So keep working, and keep believing.” _Believe until it breaks your heart_ , he thinks. “That’s, um. That’s all.”

People applaud, which is nice.

He’s a little worried that he’s going to have to come up with yet _another_ speech, for the Hart Trophy, but the PHWA members don’t let him down: even if Sid’s peers could acknowledge him as the most valuable player, the people who write about him couldn’t do it. He wasn’t actually expecting anything different.

At the after-party, he gets damn near tackled by an ebullient Geno. “I tell you, Sid, I _tell_ you!” he declares, hugging Sid fiercely.

“You were _half_ right,” Sid replies, not even trying to keep his smile off his face. “And I thanked you, just like I promised—”

“One more reason for you best, Sid,” Geno proclaims, grinning ear-to-ear.

Sid laughs, feeling Geno’s praise bubbling through him like champagne. “Fucking good night for you, too, eh? Congratulations,” he says, nodding at Geno’s Calder, which somebody let him carry around.

Geno beams. “Is not best trophy,” he says modestly, with a twinkle in his eye, “because I get from some guy name ‘Ovechkin,’ so smell kind of weird, but is pretty good, yes.”

“Oh, god.” Sid dissolves in laughter. “Does it—does it actually smell bad?”

Thankfully, Geno shakes his head. “Just joke.” More seriously, he says, “Real reason is not best trophy is because best trophy is for Sid.” The look in his eyes is soft. “So proud of you, Sid. Most proud.”

That lights up Sid’s veins like another ten glasses of champagne at once. He remembers the night Geno came out to the parking lot to defend him, the night Flower came home with him – remembers thinking, _It would be nice to have somebody to say they’re proud of me_.

He has to take a deep breath and gather himself again. Geno didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that those words would hit Sid so hard. And Sid has long practice putting that part of himself away. There’s lots of stuff that would be nice to have—a few more sub teammates, a trip to the Conference Finals, more time with his sister, the fucking Hart Trophy—and he’s gotten by without all of it until now. He can do without it forever, if he has to. And when “it” is a person—a dom—to praise him and tell him they’re proud, there’s no question about it: he has to. So he will.

“I’m proud of you, too, G.” He’s pleased that his voice comes out steady but sincere. “The Calder is a really big honor.”

Geno’s smile widens. Quietly, he says, “Next year, we win more big honor.”

There’s no doubt what he’s talking about. “Don’t jinx us,” Sid hisses, but he’s smiling as he says it. “All we can do is hope, okay?”

“Hope, yes,” Geno says, adding, “and also kick ass.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Sid snags a flute of champagne and lifts it. “To hope, and kicking ass.”

“ _Da_ ,” Geno agrees, and they drink. It’s a pretty awesome end to the season.

 

*

 

At the beginning of the next season, Sid braces himself for a wave of new teammates who won’t know that he doesn’t want to kneel for them and doesn’t appreciate jokes or teasing or—basically _any_ commentary about his dynamic. But he ends up bracing for pretty much nothing. None of the new people offer to dom him, first of all, which is pretty fantastic. And while there are a few comments at training camp, those pretty much dry up during the preseason. Sid tries out his new death glare on the offenders (Taylor helped him perfect it over the summer), and Gonch taking the rookies aside for a chat probably helps, too.

It makes being captain a very different experience than it was last year. This year’s rookies, Sid realizes, have never known him as anything _other_ than a respected authority figure. They don’t remember a time when he heard offensive comments about subs in the locker room and kept his mouth shut. They don’t have any memories of Sid as a shy rookie sub lurking in the back of their minds, clashing with the new image he’s building for himself as captain. Once Sid and his allies in the room set the tone, there’s no reason for the new players to question it. It’s different from what they’re used to, Sid’s sure—god knows all the other locker rooms Sid’s been in have been drowning in shitty stereotypes and comments about subs—but they don’t have to know that the difference is because of Sid. To them, this is just what an NHL locker room is. And that’s pretty cool.

Another big change is that Vero moved down to Pittsburgh at summer’s end, and she and Flower are now living together full-time. Flower gets some shit—all in fun—from the team about giving the milk away for free and when’s she going to make an honest sub of him, and all the rest, but it doesn’t stick. Flower’s been wearing Vero’s collar since before his draft day, so it’s not like it’s a surprise. And he’s too obviously happy, and everyone likes Vero too much, for anyone to really lean into the teasing.

Flower and Vero are going to have a housewarming once the season has really gotten going, but Sid is honored to be invited over for dinner by himself during the preseason.

“I could have waited for the housewarming,” he tells Flower as they walk up the front steps of the house after an afternoon game.

Flower makes a dismissive noise. “The housewarming is for the whole team – I wasn’t going to wait that long to invite my best friend.”

Sid blinks at Flower, warmth spreading through his chest.

Flower looks a little embarrassed and mutters, “Like you didn’t know.”

“You’re my best friend, too,” Sid says, once he’s gotten himself more together.

“Of course I am,” Flower replies, but he’s blushing a little.

After they walk in the door and take off their shoes, Flower sinks to his knees and bows his head.

Sid stands there next to him, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward. What’s he supposed to be doing here? Should he be kneeling, too? If Flower is kneeling because he’s a sub, then that would mean that Sid is supposed to kneel, too—which he doesn’t actually want to do—but if Flower is kneeling because he’s Vero’s, then it would be super fucking awkward for Sid to kneel, too…

Ultimately, Sid decides that standing is the better part of valor.

“Sid!” he hears from the lower level, and then Vero comes trotting up the stairs, smiling widely at both of them. “Hello, Sid, and welcome,” she says, holding out her arms for a hug, which Sid is glad to give.

As soon as Sid lets her go, she stands over Flower and tugs gently on his black leather collar, which is embossed with gold roses and fleurs-de-lis. He’s still looking at the floor. She lets loose a string of endearments in French. Sid catches, “My beautiful man,” and some words that he can’t translate but knows are kind of sappy. Then she tips Flower’s face up toward her with two fingers under his chin and kisses him; they keep it closed-mouthed, but Sid gets the strong impression that’s for his benefit.

Then Vero straightens up and claps her hands. “Dinner!” she announces brightly. “Marc-Andre had his game, and I can’t cook, so I ordered sushi. You like sushi, yes?” she asks Sid.

“Love it,” Sid says, charmed by her enthusiasm. He’s met Vero plenty of times before, but she seems in her element tonight in a way that she wasn’t any of those times.

He asks Flower about it, later, and Flower laughs. “Doms,” he says fondly. “So territorial, you know? My _père_ told me that doms just… blossom, when they have a house that they’re the master of, you know? A place that is _theirs_ , where they make the rules and set the order of things. I thought he was exaggerating, but now—” Flower laughs again, a little quieter. “I think every morning that she wakes up and remembers that we’re living in _her_ house, it just makes her day. It’s cute, you know?”

Sid bites his lip. It’s so weird, in a way, to hear Flower talking about doms as if they’re just wacky, adorable creatures. He _knows_ Flower is aware of how oblivious and shitty doms can be – he’s heard Flower talk about it, even. _Half the time doms don’t even know what’s fucked up and what’s not_ , he’d said.

But living with Vero, Sid realizes, gives Flower a perspective on doms that Sid doesn’t have. All the doms Sid encounters are in a professional context (or his dad or his sort-of-foster dad). And in a professional context, the only way Sid can deal with doms is by separating the doms from their dominance. Sid is happy to deal with doms as people— _or,_ Sid thinks ruefully, _I’m willing to do it, is probably more accurate_. But every time he has to deal with doms _as_ _doms_ , doing dom things, it’s in a bad way: doms trying to get him to kneel when he hasn’t offered, doms trying to tell him what to do when they don’t know any better than he does, doms making sexual advances when it’s not appropriate or welcome.

There’s a whole other side to doms, though – one that Sid can admit he overlooks a lot of the time, because he doesn’t encounter it very often. Dominance isn’t just Ott trying to injure Sid and then passing it off as flirting to avoid a penalty, or Brooksie’s dogged attempts to get Sid on his knees; it’s also Mario’s thoughtful guidance, and Geno protecting Sid from the rest of the team, that night when he’d been so upset.

It’s hard for Sid to see that other side because he doesn’t have the kind of relationship that Flower has with Vero: a relationship with a dom in a context where it _is_ appropriate for the dom to do dom things and treat you like a sub. A relationship where a dom exercises dominance over you, but in a good way – a way you like. And missing that, Sid realizes now, is maybe missing more than he’d thought.

 _I only see dominance at its worst_ , he thinks, and then he’s not sure how to feel about that. There’s nothing he can _do_ about it—a romantic relationship with a dom still isn’t an option, for a million reasons—but maybe, he thinks, it’s something he should at least try to remember, and correct for.

Resolution made, Sid tells Flower, “That _is_ cute,” and then offers, “It’s cool that that’s something you can give her, you know? Being a part of her household.”

Flower’s whole face softens. “It is.” He wraps an arm around Sid’s shoulders to pull him in for a half-hug. “I’m lucky in the people that love me,” he murmurs.

“Me, too,” Sid replies. He feels sometimes like it’s him against the world, but that’s just the melodramatic teenager in him – in truth, he’s got so many people to be grateful for. _That’s something else_ , he thinks, _to try to remember._

 

*

 

So Sid is lucky, as Flower put it, in the people that love him. But god, is he rich in the people that hate him. The new comfort and security he feels around his teammates only makes the contrast more jarring when he steps out onto the ice to face a league full of people who either actually despise him or are just doing a really fucking good impression of it in order to throw him off his game.

The ones who outright hate his guts, Sid actually doesn’t mind so much – not anymore. At least they’re up-front about it. Their contempt hurts him, but it doesn’t linger. Like a slash to the hands, it’s there and gone, and it fucking stings, but since it happens damn near every game, he’s learned to shake it off.

The worst are the ones who treat harassing and abusing him like foreplay – the ones whose contempt for Sid is all twisted up with sex, who can’t or won’t separate the violence of the game from the violence in their fantasies.

Their first game in Dallas that season, in particular, is a wake-up call. Ribeiro isn’t the only guy on that team committed to making Sid’s life hell, but he’s the only one who’s practically drooling while he does it.

It’s bad enough when he hacks away at Sid or slams him into the boards from behind—no whistle, of course—while calling him every name in the book. But when Sid doesn’t fold under the assault, when Sid gives back as good as he gets, this weird light comes into Ribeiro’s eyes, and Sid thinks, _Oh, no_. He knows that look. It’s the one that says, _I want to crush you until your whole pathetic, disgusting existence has been obliterated_ , _and_ _imagining it is making me hard_. That kind of thought process is completely alien to Sid—how can you want someone who you think is basically a smear of shit on the sidewalk?—but he’s seen the look before with enough regularity to know what it means.

It makes him feel dirty and low just being looked at that way, but even that is bearable if the dom in question can just keep the thoughts behind it to himself or herself.

In the Dallas game, Sid’s not that lucky.

After Ribeiro crunches Sid into the corner boards on a full-speed late hit, he follows Sid after the whistle, then cuts in front of him on their way back to the benches.

“You’re welcome,” Ribeiro says, nodding at Sid’s left side, which he’d smashed into the boards. When Sid gives him a nonplussed look, he smirks. Dropping his voice low, he says, “You should feel lucky, bitch – usually I make subs _beg_ for bruises like those.”

Sid recoils, and Ribeiro laughs, mean and sharp. “Show some fucking gratitude, eh?” He jerks to a stop suddenly, right in front of Sid, and Sid can barely stop in time to not bump into him. “My hotel room after the game. There’s more where that came from. I know you fucking love it—”

Sid darts to the side and away, praying Ribeiro doesn’t try to grab him. Skating away feels cowardly, but there’s nothing else he can do without drawing attention to himself. He knows losing his temper would just give Ribeiro an excuse to put his hands on Sid again, and that’s the last fucking thing Sid wants. He can hear Ribeiro laughing behind him, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Once he’s back on the bench, Army peers at him worriedly. “Ribeiro getting in your head?”

Sid shrugs. “He’s trying. I won’t let him.”

That’s the only possible answer, but—God, it makes Sid’s skin crawl. He has to take an extra-long shower after he gets back to his hotel room, to try to wash the grimy feeling away, even though he knows it’s not physical.

When he’s toweling himself off, he hears a knock at the door. “Hang on a minute, I’m getting dressed!” Sid yells.

Army’s voice calls through the door, “I’ve seen it all before, you know!”

It’s nothing but the truth, and he knows Army doesn’t mean anything by it, but after the game he’s had, it rubs him the wrong way. He pulls on his clothes as fast as he can and yanks the door open a few inches. “I’m not really in the mood to hang out,” he tells Army tersely. He usually feels pretty ambivalent about the team’s policy of not giving him a roommate—he doesn’t like the appearance of special treatment—but on nights like this, he’s glad to have his space to himself.

“Too bad!” Army says cheerfully. “I want to play Kingdom Hearts, and you’re the only one who won’t make fun of me.” He nudges the door further open, clearly intending to push past Sid into the room.

It’s typical Army behavior, nothing that would bother Sid on most nights, but tonight, again, it gets his hackles up. He holds the door in place instead of yielding, and says evenly, “I said I wasn’t in the mood, Army.”

Something in Sid’s tone or posture gets through to Army. He blinks, and takes a short step backward. “We, um. We don’t have to play Kingdom Hearts,” he says uncertainly. He bites his lip, then, and gives Sid an anxious look, like a puppy that’s been scolded but doesn’t know why.

Sid sighs. “I’m totally up for Kingdom Hearts tomorrow. I’m just…” Army really does look sad, and it makes Sid stupid, which is to say, it makes him honest. “I just don’t want to be around doms right now,” he confesses, before realizing that he’s probably only made it worse.

But instead of getting offended, Army looks worried. More than worried, actually – there’s an edge of fear in his voice. “Did someone hurt you, Sid?”

Right. Shit. Sid’s seen the made-for-TV movies, too – he should have known what Army would think. “Not in the way you mean,” he says, shaking his head.

Army gives him an unimpressed look. “If that was supposed to make me feel like you’re okay, it was _not_ a success.”

Sid sighs and leans on the doorframe. “It was a rough game. Some stuff got said that… it made me feel shitty, in a specifically dom-related way. A good night’s sleep will take care of it.” Which is true: Sid’s always been amazed at the restorative power of sleep, when it comes to dynamic shit.

Army bites his lip again. “Okay,” he replies, back to sounding uncertain. “Um, should you, like, tell somebody?”

“That another player was a creep to me?” Sid tries not to laugh – it’s not fair to Army. How should he know? Stuff like this doesn’t happen to him. “There’s nobody to tell. Nobody’s going to do anything about it.”

Army’s jaw thrusts forward instantly. He scowls and says, “ _We_ would do something about it. Your _teammates_ , Sid—”

“Getting into a bunch of pointless fights that will put us on the penalty kill does not count,” Sid says firmly, for what feels like the thousandth time. Sid does _not_ let his teammates get in fights over him – not ever. He can take care of himself. “I’m seriously going to be fine, Army. A good night’s sleep. I promise.”

Army takes Sid’s word for it this time, although he’s obviously not happy about it. Sid shuts the door with a sigh of relief and starts getting ready for bed. A few minutes later, there’s another knock on his door.

Sid pulls the door open, ready to tell Army off for not taking no for an answer—but it’s Flower standing there, with a bag of his clothes, like he’s planning to stay the night.

“Uh…” Sid gestures at Flower and his bag.

Flower answers the implied question. “Army said you needed a sub buddy. And I am, of course, your best sub buddy.”

Sid rolls his eyes and steps back to let Flower in. “I did _not_ say that,” he mutters. “I said I didn’t want to be around _doms_ , but I guess Army couldn’t believe that a person might actually just want to be _alone_.”

“That sounds like Army,” Flower agrees fondly. “ _Do_ you want to be alone?”

Sid considers this. “I don’t,” he admits, after some internal back-and-forth, “but I also don’t want to talk.”

“Deal,” Flower replies with a nod.

As they settle into separate sides of one of the beds, Flower makes a sharp, amused sound. “Text for you from Vero,” he says, holding out his phone. Sid’s French isn’t the best, but as far as he can translate, the most recent message says something like _Punching offer still open_.

Sid laughs. “Tell her thank you.” He yawns, and settles into his pillow. “Good night, Flower.”

“Good night, Sid.”

Sid sleeps that night without dreams.

 

*

 

When they get done with the Dallas trip, they only get one day at home before heading to Washington. In the scrum before the game, all the questions are about Ovechkin, who just put on the captain’s ring for the Capitals the week before. According to the media, that somehow intensifies their made-up “rivalry.” Sid, for his part, just tries not to roll his eyes. He’s still recovering, in the press, from that “I give all questions the respect they deserve” comment.

After the shitpool in Dallas, Sid is not in the mood for more dom bullshit, but long years of experience have taught him that dom bullshit does not wait for him to be in the mood. Zeek Smith, one of the Caps’ rookies, has apparently decided that if he knocks Sid around enough, it’ll distract people from how fucking stupid his own name is.

Sid’s used to getting knocked around, and he’s even used to getting knocked around after the whistle or when he’s yards away from the puck: same shit, different day. But when Smith doesn’t get the response he wants, he gets increasingly frustrated and increasingly nasty. And after Sid dekes around him for a point-blank shot, Smith fucking loses it. As Sid is trying to get back to the bench for a change, he feels a gloved hand grip the back of his neck, under his helmet, and then he feels himself being shoved forward from behind. He can’t stop himself from falling, and then Smith is standing over him, eyes burning, screaming, “That’s where you belong! That’s where you fucking belong, on your fucking knees, so fucking—”

And then Smith is shoved away from Sid – shoved with enough force that he lands on his ass and _slides_ for a few feet. Sid looks up, expecting to see white and gold, but instead, he sees red and blue, and Alex Ovechkin’s face.

Ovechkin offers Sid a hand up, but Sid can get to his feet without any help, thanks – and he’s wary of accepting favors from doms.

As Sid climbs to his feet, trying to get his nerves under control, Ovechkin says quietly, “I’m sorry, Crosby.”

“It wasn’t you,” Sid says shortly, although in truth he appreciates the apology. God knows he won’t get one from Smith.

Firmly, Ovechkin says, “My responsibility. Captain is… dom of team. You know this.” He nods at the C on Sid’s chest. “So when one of my guys fuck up, is my responsibility. My fault for not teach Smith before how Caps do things. On my team, doms treat subs with respect.” He holds Sid’s gaze.

Sid nods. He’s proud that his breathing has mostly settled down. Having a dom interact with him in a professional, respectful way turns out to be a big help with that. It’s amazing how being treated like a person makes you _feel_ like a person. “On my team, too,” he says.

“Yes. I hear this,” Ovechkin says, with obvious approval. In the background, Sid registers Smith getting two minutes for roughing. As they continue to the bench area, Ovechkin adds, “Any Cap give you trouble, you tell me, I handle. Okay?”

“I can handle myself,” Sid responds, trying to keep his face blank. It’s a nice offer, but again, he’s learned to be cautious about accepting favors from doms. It’s not smart to let a dom think he owes them something.

Ovechkin nods, not displaying any offense at Sid’s reluctance. “You can, yes. But this my responsibility, like I say. This my team, my barn, my ice. I want subs feel safe here.”

Before Sid can say a word, Tanger slides between them and asks in an undertone, “He giving you shit?”

“No,” Sid says quickly.

“Because if he’s giving you shit—”

“He’s not,” Sid repeats. “We’re good. Come on, power play time, get out there.” He knows that if Tanger’s on the ice, Therrien’s decided to ice the second unit first, to give Sid time to recover. He resents it, to be honest—he can do his fucking job, and nothing would be sweeter than turning Smith’s attack into a goal for the Pens—but he knows that Therrien would be savaged in the media if he didn’t act protective of Sid after a moment like that. The bullshit expectations of how to act don’t just fall on subs.

Back home in Pittsburgh after the game, Sid hears his phone buzz and sees his parents’ number on the screen. _It’s a good thing Dad wasn’t there tonight_ , he thinks ruefully, _or he could add the Verizon Center to the list of rinks he’s been thrown out of_.

“Hi, Dad,” he says, bracing himself for the kind of storm of parental protectiveness that he hasn’t seen much since he made it to the NHL.

Sid’s dad doesn’t disappoint. “Two minutes for roughing?” Sid hears, loud enough that he has to pull the phone a couple inches away from his ear. “ _Two_ minutes? For _roughing_?”

“I’m lucky he got that much,” Sid admits, sighing. “Some refs would have cheered him on.”

He probably shouldn’t have said that, because it just spurs his dad on to new paroxysms of rage. But he can’t bring himself to be sorry.

The truth is… it feels good, hearing his dad—one of the only doms in the world that Sid truly trusts—get protective over him. It makes Sid feel cared-for and valued – more, it makes him feel _safe_ , which is pretty fucking impressive, given how _un_ safe Sid was feeling during the game.

It’s weird, probably, that listening to a dom rant makes Sid feel calmer—shouldn’t it be the opposite?—but at the very least, these dad-rants are familiar, and comfortable, since Sid’s been hearing them for a long, long time.

As his dad winds down, he tells Sid, sounding a little embarrassed, “Sorry. I know you’re a grown sub – you don’t want your dad throwing a fit like this—”

Sid shakes his head even though his dad can’t see him. “I do,” he admits. His voice comes out quiet, like he’s afraid someone will overhear even though there’s no one else around. “I… it’s nice.”

There’s a few seconds of surprised silence on the other end of the phone. “It is?” Sid’s dad asked, sounding pleased.

Sid chews on his lip a little, sorting through his feelings. He sits on the foot of the bed, carefully keeping his phone steady against his ear. “The team gets protective of me, too,” he explains. “But with them, I have to stop it, you know? Stop them, even though it feels good, because otherwise they’ll take dumb penalties, and I can’t let that happen. So it’s nice to get it from you, too. Because I don’t have to stop you. I can just…” He shrugs.

“Just let it wash over you, huh?” his dad finishes for him.

“Yeah.”

“Well… anytime you want me to get all worked up and start shouting,” his dad says, with a smile that Sid can hear in his voice, “I’m here for you, kiddo. I have got a lot of practice.”

Sid laughs. “Don’t I know it,” he says affectionately.

Sid’s mom takes the phone next. She doesn’t mention the game explicitly, but she tells Sid she’s been thinking that Taylor’s probably old enough to come visit Sid on her own now, and asks whether he’d have time to host his sister before the season’s up. His mom’s not a yeller – that’s not her way. She’s a problem-solver, and she knows Sid well enough to know that nothing makes him happier than having Taylor’s company.

“I would love that, Mom. Thanks,” Sid says, already making plans.

So it was a pretty shit game, for sure. But by the time Sid’s head hits the pillow that night, he’s happy.

 

*

 

When Taylor finally arrives for her visit, Sid insists on picking her up at the airport. When he sees her at arrivals, he sweeps her up in a hug and swings her around in a circle, both of them laughing. People are staring, but for once, he doesn’t care.

“I missed you,” he says as he grabs her bags and heads for his car.

She half-heartedly tries to wrestle one of her bags away from him—no dice—and replies, “I missed you, too, Sid.”

In the car, he asks, “So what do you want to do while you’re here?”

“Hang out with you,” she says simply. “That’s the whole plan.”

Sid swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Same,” he says quietly.

He knows if they just stay in the house all weekend, they’ll go stir-crazy, so as soon as Taylor’s had a chance to recharge with lunch and a nap, he takes her to the Aviary.

She makes a beeline for the penguin enclosure, but the birds are all clustered at the far back, or asleep. She turns to Sid and beseeches him, “Tell the penguins to come here!”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see them!”

Sid had meant, “Why are you asking _me_ to talk to the penguins?” but he gives up. Carefully maintaining a straight face, he says to the Plexiglas front of the enclosure, “Please waddle over here, my sister wants to see you.”

The birds, shockingly, do not respond.

“Rude,” Taylor tells them. “He’s your captain, you can’t just ignore him like that!”

Sid bites his lip, trying not to smile. “I’m not the captain of _these_ penguins, T—”

But she rounds on him, narrowing her eyes. “Ssshh! They have tiny brains, they won’t figure that out unless you tell them.”

He laughs and pulls her into a hug. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this purely happy. “I love you,” he whispers into the side of her head. “Now come on, let’s go check out the other exhibits – if we keep standing here, I’m gonna be recognized.”

Taylor sniffs but goes along willingly. She mutters, “I hope your real Penguins are more respectful.”

Sid grins. “Not really. But you can see for yourself, if you want. Want to come to practice tomorrow?” He’d told the team that he might be bringing Taylor by, and made them promise to be on their best behavior.

Taylor grabs his arm, eyes sparkling. “Can I? Sid, that would be great!”

When the next morning’s practice rolls around, Taylor hasn’t lost any of her excitement about meeting his teammates. The team is pretty excited to meet Taylor, too, and everybody’s really friendly when she arrives, asking her about her hockey, whether Sid’s always been this dorky, all of that.

In the hubbub, Jordy—with his unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing—asks Taylor, “So now that you’re a dom, you’re keeping your brother in line, eh?” His tone is teasing, and he’s clearly going for some dom-sibling-of-a-sub camaraderie. But the look Taylor levels at him is so ferocious that Sid’s a little surprised Jordy’s still standing.

“If you knew my brother at all,” she says, cold as ice, “you’d know that Sid keeps himself in line.” Drawing herself up to her full height—at least a foot shorter than Jordy—Taylor finishes, in a withering tone, “Too bad _you_ can’t say the same.”

The locker room echoes with “Ooohh,” and “Ouch.” Never let it be said that hockey players don’t love a free show.

Before Sid can think of what to say to defuse the situation, Aggie steps forward and claps a hand on Taylor’s shoulder. With a deft mix of humor and approval, she says, “Well, you’ve definitely got the protectiveness part down.”

The guys cheer, and Taylor blushes. Jordy, who is a good kid despite it all, bows theatrically to Taylor, and everyone laughs. Sid’s so grateful to Aggie, he could kiss her. He makes sure to track her down the next day to thank her.

“You have a gift for that,” he mentions casually afterward, the two of them stretching in a corner of the weight room. “For cutting through dom posturing without anybody’s feelings getting hurt.” This isn’t the first time he’s seen that gift in action, either: Aggie’s better than anybody at breaking up spats between the other doms on the team, and it’s the main reason Sid’s been thinking about recommending her for an A.

Aggie shrugs at the praise, but she looks pleased. Then a considering expression comes over her face, accompanied by a tightness around her eyes. She quickly looks around, as if checking whether anybody else is in hearing distance. Then she says, matter-of-factly, “My—my husband is a dom, so. I’ve got to be good at it. If I didn’t have a knack for settling tension between doms, I’d be divorced by now.” She shoots Sid a glance, then drops her gaze to look fixedly at the mat.

Sid’s jaw hangs open for an embarrassingly long time. He knows, obviously, that you can have sex with somebody of your same dynamic – in fact, that’s been the vast majority of his sex life so far. And he’s aware of the existence of dom-switch or sub-switch couples, or more rarely, couples where one partner is adynamic and one isn’t. But he’d never really thought to put the two concepts together.

He manages to scrape his jaw off the floor and ask a semi-intelligent question, which is a good start. “Is that… is that why you never bring your husband to family skates and stuff?”

Aggie shrugs again. “Yeah.”

“We just thought you were, like… really possessive, or he was really shy. Or both.” That was what the doms on the team had speculated, anyway. Sid had always had his doubts: in his experience, the kind of dom who was so old-fashioned that she wouldn’t let her sub out in public would probably also be the kind of dom who would make Sid really uncomfortable, and he’s never gotten that vibe from her.

“I don’t lie about it, if somebody asks me,” she says quietly. “But they don’t. People are pretty good at making up their own stories to explain stuff. Makes things easier.”

“Do you think people would—” _be jerks about it_ , Sid almost says – but he knows very well the kind of shit you get for not fitting into the box of your dynamic. So instead, he says, “I wouldn’t let them. I mean, you can just keep not bringing him and not saying anything, if that’s what you want. But if you want to bring him, you should, and if anybody gives you crap, you can send them to me.”

Aggie looks at him for a long moment; there’s something open and vulnerable about the lines of her face.

“You would do that?” she asks, just barely loud enough for Sid to hear. “After all the crap that doms have dumped on you, you’d stand up for—” She breaks off.

Sid hadn’t thought of it that way. And now that he has, he thinks it’s dumb. “This isn’t about doms and subs,” he says, shaking his head.

Aggie raises a dubious eyebrow, and Sid huffs in frustration. “Look, people should be able to be who they are, okay? Even if that means doing stuff that other people don’t think goes with their dynamic. If that applies to me, then it should apply to you, too. That’s just fairness.”

But Aggie shakes her head right back. “I’m not blind,” she says, low. “I know I’ve got it easy, compared to you, or Flower, or—”

“You can’t compare it,” Sid says bluntly. “I don’t think that helps anybody anyway. It’s just about… is it fair. For people to shit on you because you don’t fit their stupid preconceptions. And it’s not. It pretty much never is.”

Aggie presses her lips together, but after a second, she smiles, reluctantly. “When you put it like that…”

Sid shrugs, although secretly he’s pleased to have won the point. “So I’m just saying. If you want to bring him to team stuff, I’ve got your back.”

“I appreciate that,” Aggie says, which is not _I’ll do that_ , but that’s okay. Just as long as she knows she _can_ bring him – that’s what Sid cares about.

She adds, “Thanks, Captain,” and claps him on the shoulder before getting up and heading to the bikes. It feels nice – most of the team is too scared of touching him the wrong way to touch him at all, nowadays. That’s better than the way it used to be—teammates touching him in ways that weren’t welcome, acting entitled to his body—but he would rather have some kind of middle ground. He’s glad Aggie, at least, seems to know where that middle ground is.

 

*

 

When they hit the playoffs that year, they hit the ground running. Nobody outside the city of Pittsburgh is expecting much from them; they have a high seed, sure, but they’re a young team just three years removed from rock bottom. They’re supposed to just be happy to be here.

Sid’s not fucking having that.

“We are not here for a participation badge,” he says, before the first game against Ottawa. He makes sure to hold the gaze of every player in the room for at least a few seconds. “We are not here for the Prince of Wales Trophy. We’re not here for some fun stories to tell our grandkids after we retire. We are here to win the fucking Stanley Cup. We have the talent to do it. The only question is whether or not we have the drive.”

The room roars, and Sid’s blood pumps hot through his veins, hot enough to burn.

They sweep Ottawa, and Sid smiles at every slur and come-on he meets in the handshake line, because that’s just air, and he’s got his sights set on something a lot heavier.

They almost sweep the Rangers, and he starts to get a crazy fizzing feeling in his belly, pure anticipation. He’d given the speech, and he’d believed it, but this is a different level of expectation entirely. One out of four is so, so much closer than one out of eight.

Then, they eliminate the Flyers—in Pittsburgh, no less. “We beat the Flyers!” Sid screams in the locker room after going through the handshake line in a blurry daze of exhaustion and relief. “Holy shit, we sent those assholes home!”

“We beat Flyers!” Geno screams back, voice hoarse, and the two of them jump up and down like little kids while the veterans on the team tell them to stop having so much fucking energy, don’t they know it’s the playoffs and they’re supposed to be tired?

Sid gets fabulously drunk that night, which he almost never lets his guard down enough to do, and Flower plies him with enough water that he’s not even hung over the next morning, and he sits down to breakfast at the Lemieux family table and sees the headline on the sports section of the Post-Gazette: PENGUINS TO PLAY RED WINGS FOR STANLEY CUP; HOW WILL PENS CLOSE LEADERSHIP GAP? Below the headline, there’s a picture of Lidstrom skating in full gear next to a picture of Sid in his Under Armour, sitting in his stall, taken from above. It makes Sid look small, and young. And submissive. Always that.

Nathalie must see the stricken look on Sid’s face. She whisks away the paper, muttering disparaging things in French, but the damage is done.

Even if Sid hadn’t seen the headline, he has ears, and he knows how to read a reporter’s angle from his or her questions. It’s not just him, either – everyone on the team is getting grilled about Sid’s leadership or, it’s strongly implied, the lack thereof. Nobody takes the bait, which helps Sid feel a little steadier. Whatever his teammates think in private of having a sub for a captain, they’re staunchly supportive around him and around the press. It makes him even more determined to live up to that support – to be the kind of leader his teammates say he is.

When they get shut out—nearly blown out—in the first game, it sucks. When they get shut out in the second game, too, the chorus of criticism intensifies; as far as the press is concerned, the Penguins are over.

But Sid doesn’t believe it – not for a second. “You’re not in trouble until you lose at home,” he reminds the rest of the team as they’re getting ready to leave the visitor’s locker room at the Joe. “And we are not going to let these fuckers take a game off of us in our own barn. I know it. We’re not going to let Pittsburgh down like that.”

But they do.

Not Game 3 – that one they win, piling together for a celebration that’s more relief than joy. But they lose Game 4 in a nail-biter, and then their backs are against the wall. Nobody says, _Now we have to win three in a row, or it’s over_ , but everyone’s thinking it.

“This sucks,” Sid says bluntly, after the game. “We’re in a tough position, for sure. But we’ve gotten better with every game in this series. Every game, we’re passing cleaner, shooting harder, blocking more shots, making more saves. Now is our chance to show the world what kind of team we are – now, when the chips are down. Let’s fucking blow them away.”

They go into Game 5 with that attitude, with a chip on their shoulders. They turn out to need it, but when they pull out the win in fucking 3OT, Sid’s never been prouder of his team. Every person in that locker room is so exhausted they can barely stand, barely speak – but they never gave up. When it would have been so much easier to slow down, to stop fighting, they gave everything they had. He would do anything for this team. _Anything_. And he swears to himself, that night, so tired he can’t hold his head up off his chest, that he will carry them on his back to the Stanley Cup if he has to.

But he can’t.

Sid watches dully as the Red Wings swarm around each other, beaming and laughing and shouting with joy on _his_ ice, in _his_ barn, as his teammates trail off the ice into the locker room, or just sink down on the bench, heads in their hands. He feels hollow inside. He tried so hard, _so_ hard. But it wasn’t good enough. None of it was ever good enough. The list of people that he’s let down, starting with his parents and ending with the whole fucking city of Pittsburgh, is too heavy for his leaden arms to carry.

He goes through the post-game motions like a zombie. Later, he won’t remember a single word that he says to the press, or any of the comforting speech he parrots to the team about being proud to come so far and how they’ll get there next year.

He doesn’t let himself sit by Flower on the plane back that night, intent on denying himself anything that would make him feel good or comforted. When he gets back to his bedroom in the Lemieux house, he lies on his back in the dark with his eyes wide open and stares into the undifferentiated blackness between the bed and the ceiling. Every missed opportunity—every shot that went wide, every pass that didn’t connect, every breakdown in coverage—plays through his mind like the highlight reel from hell, interrupted only by flashes of that cruel headline: HOW WILL PENS CLOSE LEADERSHIP GAP?

 _That’s bullshit,_ Sid thinks, furious, clenching his fists in the bedcovers. _Bullshit, bullshit, BULLSHIT—_

But the thought that some people out there believe it—that some people on his own team might believe it—cuts him to the quick. And it hurts all the worse because he can’t say they’re entirely wrong. Whatever failings Sid has as a captain have nothing to do with being a sub… but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. His leadership is far from flawless, and there _were_ missed opportunities: those that he missed himself, and those that he could have made up for.

 _I thought I’d carry them on my back_ , he remembers, and he starts to cry. It seems stupid to him now that he ever could have thought that – ever could have thought himself capable of it. Who did he think he was? _A superhero, I guess_ , he thinks mockingly. But he’s not. He’s just another hockey player who lost a game he thought he was going to win.

He curls into a ball, wishing he hadn’t pushed Flower away on the plane. _I could call Flower now_ , it occurs to him—

But no, Flower is with Vero now.

 _She’s probably holding him_ , Sid thinks wistfully. _She’s probably telling him he did good and it wasn’t his fault. She’s probably calling him her beautiful man_.

Sid basically never wishes he had a dom. But right now, lying in bed sick with failure, imagining having someone to reassure him, to hold him and praise him and give him a chance to prove himself… for just a split-second, his heart twists with want.

He closes his eyes tightly and thinks, _Please, please…_

In his fantasy, a dom is murmuring, “It’s okay, you did good, you were so good, you worked so hard…”

“I don’t feel like I was good,” Sid chokes out. “I don’t feel that way at all—”

“You were,” the dom says firmly, “but it’s okay. You can have another chance to be good. You can be good for me right now. Do you want that?”

“Please,” Sid whispers, tucking his face against the dom’s knee, “please, please…”

The dom hums, low, and leans over to lay a kiss on the crown of Sid’s head. “Then here’s what you’ll do, if you want to be good for me. Come up here and kneel on the sofa next to me.”

Sid scrambles up onto the sofa and settles onto his knees, bowing his head and clasping his hands loosely in his lap.

“Good boy,” the dom praises. “You look so beautiful on your knees for me.” Sid shivers as the praise rolls through him, warm and melting. In a louder voice, the dom says, “You’re going to do two things for me. Just two things… but they won’t be easy.”

“Please,” Sid whispers again. His eyes drift closed as he waits to hear what the dom wants from him. Whatever it is, even though it won’t be easy, it won’t be more than he can take. He knows that. This dom knows him, and his limits, and he trusts the dom not to go over them.

The dom stands up and cups Sid’s cheek in one hand. “You’re going to be perfectly still for me, and perfectly quiet. Not a twitch – not a whimper. This—” The dom rests a hand on Sid’s chest, rising and falling with his excited breaths. “—is fine, but no more movement, no more sound, than your breathing. I could _make_ you still and quiet for me—I could bind you and gag you—but I want to see you work for it. I want you to work to please me. And I think that’s what you want, too, isn’t it?”

Sid almost says, “Yes,” but—he’s supposed to be quiet—

“You can answer,” the dom says, gently.

“Yes. Please,” Sid replies, grateful. That’s exactly what he wants, and his chest fills with warmth at being so well known, so well cared for.

“Then you know what to do. Starting right now, still and quiet.”

 _Still and quiet_ , Sid repeats mentally. He draws in a slow breath, trying to get in the right headspace. At first, he feels nervous, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, but they settle after a minute – he trusts this dom. This dom— _his_ dom—has never set him up to fail. If his dom gave him this task, his dom believes Sid can do it. And that belief makes him feel so, so strong – like he could do anything. He’ll be so good. He won’t let his dom down.

The dom strokes lightly down Sid’s spine, from the nape of his neck to the swell of his ass. His body wants to shiver, but he doesn’t let it.

“Good boy,” the dom murmurs. “Nice and still for me.” The praise feels almost as tingly and shivery as the dom’s hand, but Sid doesn’t move at all. The strokes continue, some travelling down his spine and some up, but he sinks deep into his body and keeps control.

After he’s become used to the strokes, after it’s become easy not to react, the dom stops and steps around to Sid’s front. “Remember,” the dom says, “don’t move.” Then the dom cups a hand under Sid’s left forearm and pulls suddenly upward.

It’s a powerful shock to his system: not only does he have to instantly switch tracks from trying _not_ to flex his muscles to flexing them, but he has to shove down his core instinct to yield to his dom, to bend under his dom’s hands. Sid is forced to choose between obeying his dom’s hands, and obeying his dom’s orders, and he feels pulled sharply in both directions.

For a split-second, he panics— _What do I do, how am I supposed to_ —but he hears the dom’s words echoing in his mind, as clear as if they had just been spoken: _Don’t move_. _Perfectly still_. And he knows in his bones, _that_ comes first. His memory of the dom’s orders gives him the calm and the strength of purpose that he needs to resist the dom’s hand on his arm. He does what he was told: stays perfectly still, flexing against the upward pressure, not too hard, but just enough to keep his arm exactly where it is. When the dom lets go, Sid has to fight to keep a smile from spreading across his face, half from pride at passing the test, half from relief at his narrow escape from failure. But he did escape. He remembered, and he obeyed, even though he had to fight his own instinct in order to do it, pitting obedience against obedience.

The dom’s fingers skim over Sid’s cheeks, over Sid’s lips. “Look at you,” the dom says affectionately. “You’re glowing. What a sweet boy.” The dom presses a kiss to his mouth, just long enough for him to feel the smile on their lips, which hits Sid like a shot of whiskey. He feels drunk on the knowledge that the dom, _his_ dom is pleased with him. The dom murmurs, close, “Look how much you like it – being good for me.”

 _I do_ , Sid thinks, but doesn’t say, careful to stay silent as well as still. He’ll try to remember, and tell the dom after the scene is over. _I do like it. I love it_.

He’s glad he reminded himself of the rule about staying silent when, a second later, the dom reaches down to curl a hand around Sid’s cock. A whimper starts in the back of his throat, and his hips want so badly to move, but he cuts them both off at the last possible instant, his heart racing with adrenaline at the near-miss.

“Good boy,” the dom praises, letting go of Sid just as suddenly as they grabbed him. His body starts another whimper at the shock of absence, but he strangles that one, too.

He clings tight to the memory of his dom’s words—the orders and the praise—as the dom continues ruthlessly playing with Sid’s cock, torturing him with quick touches that come out of nowhere and are gone just as unexpectedly. The orders keep him strong, but the praise even more so: if he disobeys now, the memory of those words will be tainted by the knowledge that he hadn’t really deserved them, and that thought is unbearable.

The stimulation and Sid’s inability to react to it feed on each other, building in his body until he feels like he’s on fire. His breathing is shallow and ragged, and he feels light-headed. More than anything, his body wants to start crying, breaking the rules on sound and movement in one blow, and just at the moment when he can’t take it any more, when he can feel the inevitability of that first sob growing in his chest, the dom cups a hand around Sid’s face and says simply, “You’ve been such a good boy. You’re done now. You can move, and speak. I’m proud of you.”

Sid sags against the back of the sofa and starts crying, finally releasing some of the tension that had been winding tighter and tighter inside of him. He can feel the dom’s hand on his head, stroking his hair, and Sid babbles, “Thank you, thank you, I needed—please, let me—let me thank you, please let me do something for you—”

He doesn’t know how much of that was comprehensible—the words came out in a jumble, interrupted by sobs—but he has to say it, has to tell the dom how much it means to have been given the chance to be good. He feels redeemed – brought up from a fallen state into a state of worth and grace. He feels exalted.

The dom rubs a thumb over Sid’s lower lip and says softly, “You want to thank me, hmm?”

He nods vigorously, saying “Yes” out loud just to be sure – he thinks he knows what’s coming next, and he wants it, so badly he’ll beg for it if he has to.

“You _are_ a sweet boy,” the dom praises. Sid chances a quick glance up and sees an indulgent smile on the dom’s face. “I think I’ll let you thank me with your mouth, since you’ve been so good. I know you like that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Sid says, desperately, “please, I love it, _thank_ you,” the words falling over each other in their hurry.

The dom fists a hand in Sid’s hair and uses it to guide his head down between their legs. Sid’s eyes slip shut in ecstasy as he kisses and licks and sucks. He forgets to breathe, sometimes, so rapt at the task at hand – so elated to have this chance to please his dom, who’s been so good to him. At the end, when the dom’s hand goes painfully tight in Sid’s hair and the dom’s voice goes ragged with climax, Sid feels utterly, perfectly satisfied; there’s nothing more in the world that he wants.

But his dom is so good to him—so kind, so giving—that it’s not over even then. The dom lays Sid out on his back and strokes his cock, bathing him with words of quiet praise until he’s right on the edge, then says, “Come for me, my good, pretty boy. You’ve earned it.” And Sid obeys, shaking.

When the fantasy is over, Sid shoves himself into a sitting position in the bed and sighs, long and luxurious. It was just a fantasy, but even the fantasy had power: he does feel better.

 _I could be good_ , he thinks wistfully, then shakes his head, laughing at himself.

The loss still feels like shit—he has the sinking feeling that the loss will maybe always feel like shit—but at least he feels like he’ll be able to sleep tonight. He drags himself to the shower, yawning all the way, then half-heartedly dries himself off before burrowing under the covers. He’s out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow.

 

*

 

The next day, Sid makes sure to find some time to meet with each of his teammates alone, to tell them what they’d done well during the last series, and to thank them for their hard work.

He’s moved by how many of them do the same for him: praise his play, thank him for his dedication, tell him there’s nothing he could have done differently.

“Like you said,” Jordy recites, with absolute conviction, “next year is our year. Now we know what it takes to win.”

Sid tries not to smile at the cliché. He nods seriously, and tells Jordy, “That’s right. Remember it.”

Sid talks to Geno last – partly by chance, but partly because Geno had looked especially cracked-open last night, and he wants to make sure their talk won’t be rushed.

He pulls Geno aside into one of the trainer’s exam rooms and starts saying nice things about Geno’s play, but Geno shakes his head and balls up his fists. “Not good enough,” he says softly – Sid’s not sure whether he’s talking to Sid or to himself.

“Geno, I know you,” Sid counters. “You gave everything you had to give, okay? I know that for a fact.”

Geno shakes his head again. He’s hunched over, and so still, as if he’s nursing a gut wound. “Not good enough for _you_ , Sid,” he insists.

Sid blinks and takes a step back. “Did I… say something, to make you—Geno, you were _amazing_ , I’ve thought the whole time that you’re amazing, and if I said anything that made you think—”

“Not _you_ say,” Geno interrupts, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _They_ say. Papers, everyone… say they take _captain_ , Sid!” He looks up at Sid, misery radiating from him. “Say Penguins make you not captain because we lose. Is my fault – I don’t play good enough for keep you…”

“Oh, Geno…” Sid lays his hand softly on Geno’s arm, wishing it were safe for him to hug Geno, wishing he didn’t have to worry about pictures and bullshit rumors. Firmly but gently, he says, “Nobody is going to take the captaincy away from me. If Shero and Therrien were the kind of people who would listen to bullshit about how subs aren’t fit to be leaders, they wouldn’t have made me captain in the first place. Okay?”

“But papers—”

“Don’t read that shit, Geno – it’s their job to think up bullshit to get people mad so people will talk about their articles. They’re not in charge of this team, okay? You know that.”

“Okay,” Geno mumbles. He’s sniffling, and Sid goes in search of a Kleenex. As Sid pokes around, Geno says, “But still I’m not good enough, because if we win, then people not even _say_ you not be captain, so—”

“Geno, I do not give a shit what reporters say about my leadership,” Sid says bluntly. Having successfully located a Kleenex box, he presents it to Geno, who is giving him a skeptical look. “I _don’t_ ,” Sid insists. “And even if you had scored twice as many goals, there would still be idiots trying to say that I shouldn’t be captain because I’m a sub, because the facts don’t matter to people like that. The truth doesn’t matter. It’s like the awards – you remember when we talked about that, last season?”

“I remember,” Geno says. He blows his nose loudly, then looks a little embarrassed.

“No matter how good I am, no matter how many times this team wins the Stanley Cup—and we _are_ going to win the Stanley Cup,” Sid says, throwing superstition out the door and saying what he really believes, because he wants Geno to believe it, too, “they will only ever see me as weak and messed-up and no-good, because that’s what they think all subs are like.”

“They stupid,” Geno mutters.

“Yes, they are,” Sid says, waiting until Geno looks up and then holding his gaze. “And what does that make you, for feeling really bad and torturing yourself over what a bunch of stupid people say?”

Geno scowls. Then, after a few seconds, his face softens, and one corner of his mouth quirks up. “Make me dom,” he says, ruefully. “Always think I can, um, control everything, you know? Think if I play better I can make stupid people shut up. But is silly. Sid know; Sid most smart.”

Sid blushes. “I don’t want you feeling like crap for any reason,” he tells Geno. “But especially not for dumb reasons, you know?”

Geno sighs. “Yes. You don’t feel like crap, also, okay?” he says, looking at Sid intently. “You don’t, um, blame for not win Cup, because you also play best and do everything. _Everything_. And best always.”

Yeah, that’s not really helping with Sid’s blush, which gets even redder. “I won’t,” he promises. “I mean, I do feel like crap about losing, and I think I will for a long time. But not in a way where I think it was my fault. If we win as a team, then we lose as a team. I’m gonna try to remember that.”

“Yes, I remember, too,” Geno says, smiling. The look in his eyes gets soft, and his voice goes quieter. “Thank you, Sid. Feel better now.”

“You’re welcome,” Sid replies. Geno is looking at him with so much affection, and his eyes are still a little red from when he was sniffling before, and Sid doesn’t just want to excuse himself and leave it at that.

 _I’m gonna do a dumb thing_ , Sid thinks, resigned, but he doesn’t actually mind all that much.

Moving slowly because he knows Geno won’t be expecting it, Sid steps close and opens his arms; Geno, looking surprised but touched, closes the distance and wraps Sid up in a hug.

It becomes immediately obvious that Sid has indeed done a dumb thing: a hundred pieces of information that he didn’t need to know are bombarding his brain, like how good Geno smells, and how well their bodies fit together, and how good Geno’s big hands feel splayed across Sid’s back. But Sid doesn’t regret it. He’s got a lot of practice shoving information like that into the box in his head and closing the lid, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do, and it will work fine, and he and Geno will continue to be good friends and colleagues and nothing else. But… not quite yet. Not until it’s over.

Sooner than he really wants, he steps back – he had to leave the door of the exam room open to avoid scandal, but avoiding scandal is not really going to work out if somebody walks by and sees Sid and Geno embracing.

“Have a good summer, G,” he says, too loud in the silence – for some reason, he’s having a little difficulty remembering how his voice works.

“You, too,” Geno says softly.

Sid can feel the press of Geno’s arms around him until he falls asleep that night. In the morning, he puts the memories away, and starts thinking about next year.

 

*

 

The summer goes by in a blur, except for the time that Sid spends with his family. It’s not like his last two summers lacked a sense of purpose, but this time, it’s sharper, like an invisible prod jabbing him in the back whenever he sits still too long. He promised his Penguins that this year would be their year, and he can’t bear the thought of letting them down.

Coming back to camp for the third time, and the second time as captain, is the same mix of welcoming back familiar faces and greeting a few new ones. Geno, Flower, Tanger, Gonch, Aggie, and Duper all come back smiling, hungry to do the work – they found some way to put last spring’s loss behind them over the summer. And while most of the rookies get sent down to Wilkes-Barre—hopefully having picked up some better habits when it comes to talking about subs—Karvinen manages to stick around, much to Aggie’s relief.

“You guys are great, I love you,” she tells Sid as they wait for a press availability, “but sometimes I need to borrow a fucking tampon and you’re useless.”

“Harsh,” Sid mutters, but he’s laughing.

“You can take it,” she says easily. “I’m also really enjoying not being the shortest person on the team anymore.”

Sid, who was himself the shortest person on the team until Aggie came along and beat him by 4 inches, nods in sympathy.

Looking anywhere but at Sid, she says casually, “Hey, I was thinking of having her over for dinner, sort of a welcome to the team thing. Want to come?” _Want to meet my husband_ , she means, and he accepts right away, honored to have her trust.

Dinner is fun – Sid’s always gotten along well with Aggie, her husband is equally even-keeled, and Karvinen turns out to be as relentlessly good-natured as Flower.

“I will be, um, send down, I know,” she says cheerfully, “for most of season. But such amazing opportunity for me when I’m here, to play for Penguins organization, for captain Sidney Crosby!”

Sid kind of wants to hide his face in his hands—that level of earnest enthusiasm is a little hard to take—and he’s sure his cheeks are red when he says, “I’m not that special—”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Captain,” Aggie says, grinning and raising her glass at him. “I’m sure Karver here would say you’re her idol.” Sid glares at her.

Karvinen makes an apologetic face and says, “Selanne, because Finnish, you know. But you are great!”

“I can’t compete with Selanne,” Sid agrees with good grace.

On his way out the door, after dinner, he tells Aggie, “I had a lot of fun. Thank you for inviting me.” It _was_ fun, even if—or maybe in part _because_ —it was really different from what Sid’s used to. It’s the first dinner he’s had in a private home where everybody ate off of separate plates, for one thing – even progressive couples like Sid’s parents, who don’t do the whole elaborate hand-feeding routine at home, still share the dom partner’s plate. And it was a little funny to see two people so obviously couple-y with no collar in sight, and each wearing a dom’s ring for the other. Not _bad_ funny… in fact, as he’d watched Aggie and her husband split the chores and take turns talking over each other, there’d been a voice in the back of his head whispering, _This is what it could be like_ —but no. Of course a dom wouldn’t expect another dom to do that stuff, but for Sid, it would be different. He knows that.

“Karver’s hero-worship didn’t put you off your dinner too much?” Aggie asks, with what she probably thinks is an innocent look.

“No thanks to you,” Sid mutters.

She laughs, and says, “Well, I thought it was fun, too. Maybe we’ll do it again?”

“I’d like that,” Sid replies. He hesitates, weighing whether this is his business, before saying, “I think you could invite more of the team over, if you wanted. I think…” He shrugs.

Aggie tilts her head from side to side, which Sid has learned is her way of politely expressing that she thinks you’re full of shit. “I don’t think people would call me names,” she says diplomatically. “But I’m not looking to have teammates come up to me and ask me how we have sex, or try to set me up with subs they know—”

“Set you up?” Sid echoes, incredulous. “You’re _married_.”

“But this isn’t a _real_ relationship, you know,” she says, stone-faced, gesturing between herself and the kitchen upstairs where her husband is loading the dishwasher. “Someday one of us will meet a nice sub, of course. It may _feel_ serious now,” she adds, in a flat, bitter voice, “but once I meet the right sub, I’ll see the difference.”

Sid absorbs that. It’s hard for him to wrap his head around. Aggie is a grown woman, and smart as hell, too. How anybody could think they know what she wants better than she does… “That’s really fucking disrespectful,” he says. “Of you, of your marriage…”

“Yeah,” she agrees. She chews on her lip a little, then says, like it’s an explanation, “I like our teammates. And I want to _keep_ liking them. So.” She shrugs.

There’s stuff Sid doesn’t talk about for exactly that reason, so he gets it, and says so.

“Yeah. I know you do.” She gives him a small smile. “Good night, Sid. Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks, Aggie.”

Sid has a lot to think about on his way back to the Lemieuxs’ house. He keeps coming back to the idea that people apparently assume Aggie and her husband can’t be serious about each other because they’re both doms. It infuriates Sid, but there’s more to it than that. Because he recognizes that _he’s_ been guilty of thinking like that, too. Not about Aggie – he can’t imagine thinking that way about anybody who was _married_. But on the rare occasions when Sid picks up, it’s almost always another sub or an adynamic, and Sid never gives a thought to trying to get their numbers or see them again, because…

 _Because_ obviously _there couldn’t be anything more there than a hookup_ , Sid thinks, glumly – recognizing the thought pattern doesn’t make him feel any better about it. _Because a relationship wouldn’t even cross my mind as an option_.

Granted that Sid has his own reasons for thinking a relationship isn’t an option—for him, it’s _not_ —but the automatic way he’d ruled out even the thought of it is… not great. He wonders, now, if he’d been careful enough about making clear that he was only looking for a hookup, or if he’d wound up leading people on because he’d thought his dynamic spoke for itself.

When he gets home, he flops face-first on the bed, still dressed, and groans. _So probably I’ve been a shithead_ , he thinks. There’s nothing he can do about his actions in the past, but he can do better going forward. He doesn’t think it’ll be too hard.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and he pulls it out to check it. Flower has texted him, _I told Vero you went to Aggie’s for dinner & now she is jealous_

Sid laughs and texts back, _Of Aggie or of me?_

There’s a second’s wait and then: _She wants to know if Aggie’s dinner was more fun than when you have dinner with us_

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sid mutters, rolling his eyes. He knows that doms are possessive about their people, but this is ridiculous. He replies, _It was equally fun_

There’s a longer pause, long enough to make Sid worry that he’s offended Vero. Then he gets a text from an unknown number that says, _Hello Sid this is Vero please come over for dinner tomorrow if you are free MA will make your favorite food_

A text from Flower comes immediately on the heels of Vero’s text: _We have practice and media shit, I’m not making you anything_

And then another text from Vero: _Correction I will order your favorite food_

It’s followed quickly by a disappointed L _sorry_

And then: _MA is a terrible house sub haha_

Sid sees the “haha” but doesn’t entirely trust it. He hates the idea that Vero might be disappointed in Flower’s submission, and that it might be Sid’s fault. He quickly texts Flower: _Tell Vero my favorite food is steak and then you can toss some steaks on the grill when we get done with practice_

Flower replies: _Done. You’re a hero_.

A few minutes later, he texts Sid, _I’m not saying throw Aggie under the bus but if you could say my steaks are better you could save us all from a lot of special dom crazy_

Sid laughs again and replies, _I’ll think about it_ , then turns off his phone and goes to bed.

 

*

 

The next day, when everyone’s in the video room, Flower takes the opportunity to announce that he and Vero are inviting everyone over for a housewarming party in three weeks.

“You moved into that house a _year_ ago,” Duper says, unimpressed, launching a fountain of chirps at Flower’s expense.

But Flower is unruffled. “Well, most of you have not seen it yet, so it’s still a good time! And Vero is in a hosting mood, for some reason,” he adds, shooting Sid a conspiratorial look.

Sid bites his lip and tries not to laugh.

He follows Flower home after practice, and as usual, when they get inside, Flower sets down his bags and kneels right by the door. Vero descends on the pair of them like a whirlwind of affection, greeting Sid first, as always, and then lavishing sweet words on Flower in between sharp, fervent kisses. When she peeks inside of Flower’s grocery bags and sees the fancy free-range steak that he picked up on the way, she gives Flower an extra-long kiss for that.

She sends Flower up the stairs and out to the back porch, where the grill is, with a loving swat to his ass. Then she shoots Sid a rueful look.

“I know I was being ridiculous last night,” she admits. “I know it! But I could not stop myself. And then I got carried away and decided to host a housewarming party, which I will have to do all by myself because Marc-Andre will be away beforehand… so now I am being punished for my silliness.” She lets her head tip back against the wall and sighs theatrically.

“I think it’ll be nice to have a housewarming,” Sid says diplomatically. “It’ll be good to have everyone hanging out socially at the beginning of the season, let the new people get to know everybody.”

“And I can have it catered,” Vero says, in a tone of great relief.

“And you can have it catered,” Sid agrees.

Vero claps her hands together and straightens up. “Then it is excellent!”

She adds, making a zipping-lips gesture, “And I promise I will not ask you _anything_ about Agosta’s party last night, not a _word_. It is not my business!”

Sid just nods, relieved – it’s not his place to tell people about Aggie’s husband, but he was having trouble seeing a way out of it if Vero was going to interrogate him about last night’s dinner.

As he follows Vero upstairs to the kitchen, where she starts opening a bottle of wine, he thinks about coming over for the housewarming party. He was telling the truth, it _does_ sound nice. But the thought of the rest of the team and their families being here, observing him in this space where he usually feels free to ignore the social expectations that go with his dynamic, reminds him of something that had been bothering him last year, and that he should probably get straightened out before the party.

“Um, Vero?”

“Yes, Sidney?”

“When I come visit, should I—should I kneel when I come in, like Flower does?”

Vero tilts her head, considering. “Would you be more comfortable kneeling instead of standing?” she asks.

Sid blinks – that’s not the response he was expecting. Uncertainly, he gives the honest answer: “Not really.”

Vero smiles. “Then no, you should not kneel.”

“Oh.” Well, he appreciates that, but that wasn’t really the point. “No, I—everyone’s going to be coming to the housewarming, and I—if that’s what’s expected—”

“ _Oh_.” Vero nods once, eyes widening. “No, I do not expect my submissive guests to greet me on their knees. Some of them will probably kneel anyway, if they were raised in very traditional families. But nobody will think it’s odd or inappropriate if you don’t.”

Sid lets out a sigh of relief.

“Sid…” Vero looks unsure for a moment – it’s not an expression he’s used to seeing on her, but it’s gone quickly, replaced by a look of determination. “Sid, you are doing well,” she says with emphasis. “The way you interact with me, with Marc-Andre – the way I see you interact with the rest of the team, and with fans… it is always very appropriate, it is good. If you have ever been concerned about that—” which is very delicate of her, since it’s perfectly obvious that he was worried about that, “—you don’t need to be. You are doing well,” she repeats, holding eye contact until Sid has to break it, uncomfortable. He had tried to keep his expression blank while Vero was talking, but it was difficult – her praise had moved him, and moved _through_ him in a feeling very much like the way alcohol moves through his body, warmth spreading outward through his veins.

“Thank you,” he says. It comes out almost in a whisper. Since she already knows, it doesn’t cost anything for him to confess, “I do, sometimes… get concerned, I mean. About that stuff.” And it feels weirdly good to admit it. Sid doesn’t know why.

“Well,” Vero says, gently, “when you are concerned, you can always ask me. Or even if you are not concerned, and just want to hear that you are doing well.” There’s something uncomfortably knowing in her gaze, like maybe his earlier reaction hadn’t been as subtle as he thought.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sid attempts.

Vero brushes that off with a twitch of her fingertips. “Of course I do not have to.”

Sid flushes. “Right, I know, I just—I don’t want to ask—“ He bites his lip. “I can’t ask you to just, like do nice stuff for me without, like—there’s other stuff…”

What Sid is fumbling to express is that he doesn’t want to ask Vero to do stuff for him without getting anything in return, but Vero takes it in a little bit of a different way. She looks pensive, a line between the curve of her eyebrows, and she says slowly, “It’s an interesting question. But I think, no. In a relationship, with a sub who is mine, you would be right, but not with a friend.”

She nods at Sid, but he’s not really sure what she’s talking about, so he doesn’t nod back. His uncertainty must show on his face, because she explains, “With Marc-Andre, you know I can be… very kissy-kissy and sweet words and so on, but that is not all.” Vero laughs a little, just quietly. “Because I am also very mean to poor Marc-Andre, sometimes,” she says fondly; Sid, who’s seen the stripes and welts and burns when Flower changes in the locker room, doesn’t doubt it. “Which he loves, and which is good for him. And I would not be happy with just one or the other – I need both. So yes, in a relationship, the kiss-kiss and the praise and all that would never be enough. But for a friend, it’s—”

Sid interrupts, babbling, “Right, yeah, of course,” even though he knows it’s horribly rude – he would do anything to stop the flow of words coming out of Vero’s mouth, each one slicing through him like a blade. He can taste bile at the back of his throat. “Of course, yeah, all that soft stuff isn’t enough, it couldn’t be—”

Vero frowns, her brows pulling together again. “Not for me, no,” she says, “but Sid, doms are not a—”

Flower bursts through the porch door, flourishing a plate of steaks. “Dinner is served!” he announces, beaming.

It’s probably the most grateful Sid has ever been for Flower’s presence, and that’s saying something.

All through dinner, Sid is probably a terrible guest – he tries to keep up a good front, to laugh and joke like normal, but it’s an effort. It’s stupid, because Vero didn’t say anything that Sid didn’t already know. He knew the stuff that he liked was dumb and weird. He _knew_ that. He knew that no dom would ever want what Sid wants. None of this is a surprise.

He can’t figure out why it upset him so much until later, when he’s back at Mario’s house, lying in bed and not feeling even a little bit like sleeping. _I’ve broken so many rules_ , he thinks, _done so many things a sub isn’t supposed to do – and it’s been okay, the world hasn’t ended_. That was amazing, of course. But dangerous, too. It had given him an unwarranted sense of optimism. It had started to make him wonder if maybe, just maybe, he might be able to extend that indifference about the rules of his dynamic into the rest of his life… the part of his life that he would share with a lover. A partner. After all, a rule about how a sub is supposed to act, supposed to _be_ , is still just a rule, whether it’s about leadership or about sex… right? And he knows from personal experience that a lot of the rules about how subs are supposed to act are pure bullshit.

But if even Vero—a good dom, a nice dom, who actually does like the sweet stuff, the kissing and the pet names—wouldn’t want a sub who needed that nice stuff all the time…

 _Then I was full of shit_ , Sid thinks, refusing to put it more kindly than that, even in his own head. For fuck’s sake, he had the evidence in front of him right there every time he came to visit. Vero’s happy to let Sid stand when he comes in and feed himself and sit in a chair, but with Flower, the sub she loves, the sub she _wants_ , it’s the traditional stuff: hand-feeding, and kneeling by the door, and kneeling at her feet when they’re hanging out after dinner. It’s just like she told him: with a sub who’s just a friend, it doesn’t matter, but when a sub is _yours_ , it’s different. There may be lots of different okay ways to be a sub, out in the wider world where it doesn’t matter if the way you are is the way doms want you to be. But there’s only one right way to be the kind of sub a dom will want to keep.

He climbs out of bed and takes his pillow to the sofa, where he sleeps sometimes when he’s feeling shitty – it comforts him by fooling his body into thinking that there’s somebody spooned up behind him.

“It’s okay,” Sid whispers to himself as he tugs a quilt over his legs. “It’s better.” His rational mind believes it: that it’s better for him not to torture himself with fantasies of a partner he knows he can’t have anyway. But as he lies on the sofa, finally drifting off to sleep, a soft little corner of his heart aches, and he doesn’t think those rational justifications are going to make it stop.

 

*

 

The housewarming party is a delight, as Sid expected it would be. Vero is in her element; she pulls Sid aside in the middle of the party to whisper joyously in his ear, “All these people are in _my house_! And I can tell them what to do, because it’s _my house_! Ah!”

Sid manages not to crack up until she’s swept away, on to the next guest or the next crisis. He notices that she was right: a few of the submissive guests kneel when they come in, like Duper’s girlfriend and Gonch’s wife, but most just greet Vero with politely ducked heads and lowered gazes.

The more traditional couples end up in the family room, which is set up with a bunch of small individual tables where doms can easily feed a kneeling sub, while the less formal couples gravitate toward the dining room, with its one big table where they can hand-feed side-by-side, and the singles hang out in the kitchen, clustered around the island that’s doing double-duty as the bar. Aggie had sent her regrets—it would be hard to explain not bringing a spouse to this kind of event—but everyone else is there, from the veterans to the rookies. Flower is busy with hosting duties, so Sid mostly hangs out with Karver—answering her questions, making sure she gets a chance to chat with the veterans—and Geno, who must have heard about Karver’s hero-worship from Aggie and shamelessly teases Sid about it.

Sid has a really good feeling about the group this year. Of course, he says that every year, but he doesn’t always mean it, not like he does now.

No one outside the organization is expecting much from them this year; it’s been years since a team that lost in the Cup final made it back the next year to win it all. But they make it through the month of October without any bad losses, and with some nice wins. And then November, just the same, playing tight, building chemistry. They have a couple of rough road games in December—one against the Leafs, which doesn’t bother Sid more than any other loss, and one against the Flyers, which _really fucking does_ —but some beautiful wins, too, including an epic thrashing of the Islanders.

After the Flyers game, Sid finds Karver crying in a side hallway near the locker room, and his heart lurches in his chest. He wraps an arm around her shoulders—dumb to get this close with a switch teammate where anybody could see them, but fuck it, she’s practically a baby—and starts saying, “It sucks to lose, I know – especially to lose to a rival, but—”

“I know about losing,” she replies, staring up at him with incredulity, tears streaming down her face. “I play two years pro in Finland before this, play for my country in Worlds, I _know_ —”

Confused, Sid asks, “So why are you—”

Her face crumples. “How they _say_ things?” she chokes out, swallowing down sobs. “So— _terrible_ things—”

Anger flares up in the pit of Sid’s stomach, and he has to work hard not to clench his hand where it’s curved around her shoulder. “The Flyers are the fucking worst,” he says, low. “Their _fans_ are the worst, I should have warned you – they’ll abuse anybody for anything, but with you being a switch, I bet they—”

“I don’t care what they say about _me_ ,” she half-shouts, shaking her head in frustration. “They say bad about me, fuck them, just ignorant – at home, we respect switch, so I know they say bullshit—”

“Then what—”

“How they say these things about _you_?” Karver bursts out. She sounds so lost, so betrayed – it breaks Sid’s heart. “I hear in NHL they say bad things about subs, I think I’m prepared, but I don’t—you _Sidney Crosby_ ,” she whispers, like his name is a talisman. “Best in the world. How can they—” She stares up at him mutely, waiting for an answer – waiting for Sid to somehow make this make sense. She looks so young. She _is_ so young.

“I’m sorry, Karver,” Sid says quietly, his chest aching. He can’t imagine how much it must hurt, seeing a player you look up to degraded on the ice right in front of you—to see something you treasure treated like trash. “Karver—Michelle,” he corrects – if this isn’t a time for first names, he doesn’t know what is. “It sucks. I’m so sorry it’s like this.” It feels pitifully insufficient.

She leans into his side. “I dream, before, about NHL.”

The NHL was Sid’s dream, too. But he always knew his dream would hurt him. “I wish it could be like you dreamed,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

She turns under his arm and gives him a tight hug, then steps back. The lost look has faded from her face, replaced by determination. “Someday, it’s better,” she says, and he can see in her eyes that she really means it – she’s not just saying it to make either of them feel better. “Someday,” she continues, “every team has captain like Sidney Crosby, who makes them respect sub.” She smiles a little when she says it, like the thought of that future is enough to begin to restore her usual cheerfulness.

Sid’s about to say _Maybe_ and mean _no_ , but suddenly, he thinks of Ovechkin standing up for him last year, saying, _In my building, doms treat subs with respect._ He thinks of the players who’ve left the Penguins in trades or free agency during his captaincy, and what attitudes and habits they might have carried with them to their new teams. Sid gets so beaten down about this stuff that it feels cruel to think about it being better, like setting himself up for disappointment. But it _has_ gotten better, just in the few years he’s been in the league. Maybe Karver’s right – maybe that progress won’t stop. Maybe this is some kind of beginning.

So instead of _Maybe_ , Sid says, “I really fucking hope so,” and smiles back.

 

*

 

They get back from Philly late that night, but the NHL in its infinite wisdom scheduled them a game against the Canucks the very next night – a brutally tight turnaround that pretty much guarantees they’ll be exhausted for the Vancouver game. It starts everybody out in a sour mood, and the game gets chippy fast.

It doesn’t help that Burrows is acting like his stick is magnetized to Sid’s hands and Sid’s head, clearly aiming to intimidate him, or at least piss him off.

“Hey, you know your stick’s supposed to be on the fucking puck, eh?” Sid snaps at him after a particularly egregious slash to the hands.

Burrows shrugs, and replies, “The puck’s not as pretty as you are, sweetheart.” He grins.

“Oh, fuck off,” Sid spits, and then it’s time for the faceoff.

By the third period, Burrows has stopped even pretending to try to score. Why should he? The officials clearly aren’t going to stop him, and Sid has laid down the law with his teammates about getting in stupid fights with opposing players, even when he’s the one they’re targeting.

In the Canucks’ zone, after Sid has passed the puck, he feels a brutal impact to the side of his head, knocking it against the glass, combined with the sharp _clack_ of a stick hitting his helmet. When Sid climbs to his feet and sees Burrows turned away from him, acting like he had nothing to do with it, Sid acts on pure frustration. He reaches out with both hands and cross-checks Burrows right in the numbers, shoving him toward the net.

Immediately, there’s a whistle.

One of the refs points at Sid and yells, “Cross-checking, 2 minutes—”

Furious, Sid shouts, “He cross-checks me in the fucking head, I cross-check him in the back, and you put _me_ in the box!? What the fuck is—”

But the ref openly laughs at him. “Your dom may think it’s cute, sweetie,” he says, smirking, “for you to stamp your foot and pout when it’s time for your punishment, but I expect my subs to take what I give ‘em and shut up.”

Sid sees red. He feels like his blood is on fire – like every breath he takes puts him in danger of turning into ash. “I am _not_ … _your_ … _sub_ ,” he snarls.

“You want another two for unsportsmanlike?” the ref asks, raising an eyebrow.

Before Sid can figure out what he could possibly say in response, Burrows chimes in, “Guess Super Mario’s getting lax in his old age. He shoulda trained his little lapdog better, huh?”

“Amen,” the ref says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t give a shit what gets Lemieux off – in my rink, there’s no fucking backtalk.”

Sid’s fist is in Burrows’s face before he even consciously thinks of punching him. He needs an outlet for his rage, as much on Mario’s behalf as on his own, and he has enough threads of self-control left to not punch the ref, if only barely. It’s not a dignified fight—Sid’s never been in a fight before, and he’s too worked up to be at all strategic about it, so he gets his ass handed to him in about ten seconds. But he doesn’t regret it – not until Burrows winks at him on their way to the penalty box and says, “I didn’t know you felt that way about me, sweetheart. Was it good for you, too?”

 _Right_ , Sid thinks, cold shame starting to replace the red haze in his vision. _That’s why I don’t get in fights. Fuck. Sid, you stupid fuck, what were you thinking?_

But Sid knows exactly what he was thinking.

He’s always been aware—always—that he had to be very careful about his relationship with Mario. That he was always one misunderstood hug, one too-friendly smile away from a scandal. People had mostly been respectful, though; the tradition of veterans taking in rookies, giving them a family atmosphere, was sacred to hockey culture. But Sid’s twenty-one, and he’s not a rookie anymore. His role on the team has changed, and maybe more importantly, his body has changed: people don’t look at his face and think _child_ anymore. And if they don’t look at Sid and think _child_ , they don’t look at Mario and think _father figure_. They look at a young, uncollared sub living in the house of an older dom that he obviously idolizes, and they think—

 _Lapdog_ , Sid hears like an echo, and the rage and shame twine around each other in his stomach until he thinks he might vomit right there in the penalty box.

When he goes home after the game, he’s shaking with need. He’s never done this when Mario and the kids are home before. He shouldn’t do it now. But—

Mario and Nathalie are both reading in the den, Mario in his big armchair and Nathalie kneeling at his feet.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Sid says, in barely more than a whisper.

Mario waves a hand— _it’s nothing_ —and gives him a look of concern. “Sid, what happened out there tonight?”

Of course they saw the game. Sid’s cheeks burn red – he hopes they couldn’t see close enough to lip read. He hopes nobody could. “Same old,” he says, looking at the ground. “Um, when you guys are done, can Nathalie come up to the attic for a few minutes? It’s okay if you’re busy.”

“I’ll be there in a bit,” Nathalie replies. She looks even more worried than Mario, but her voice is low and soothing.

Sid whispers, “Thanks,” and heads up to his quasi-apartment on top of the house.

He’s standing by the couch when Nathalie knocks, clutching a pillow to his chest for dear life. “Come in,” he says.

Once Nathalie shuts the door behind her, she asks, “What do you need, Sidney?”

Sid tries to pull enough breath into his lungs to answer, but it’s so hard – he’s so close to getting what he needs, if he can just fucking ask for it, but he’s paralyzed. It’s incredibly stupid to do this when they’re not alone in the house, what is he fucking thinking—

So he stands there, mute. Nathalie’s eyes focus on the pillow, and he can see the moment when she understands.

“Yes,” she says, with what looks like relief. “Of course. Here, Sidney.”

She sits on the couch and motions to the floor at her feet.

“Thank you,” Sid croaks. He’s on his knees in a second flat.

He waits for the bliss, for the calm that he usually gets, but it doesn’t come. All he gets is an unwelcome clarity, a crispness to his thoughts as his mind ticks over the events of the night.

He sets aside the fight with Burrows as small fry. The way that, afterward, the team had treated him like somebody who’d suffered a temporary psychotic break is a problem for another day.

The real problem is what happened before that: the casual disrespect with which Burrows and the ref had talked about Mario—or maybe, the real problem is what’s been happening for the last three years, as Sid has been clinging onto the safety and the comfort of this family, this house, while stubbornly ignoring how his presence here looks from the outside.

If people think he’s Mario’s— _lapdog_ , Sid hears again, and shudders—that ruins Sid and Pat’s careful campaign to make people think of Sid’s submission as purely hypothetical, his dynamic as nothing more than a label, something they can safely ignore. And it makes Sid into an object: just another trophy in Le Magnifique’s impressive collection. But what it does to Mario is worse. It cheapens him, turns him from a generous captain and a wise mentor into a sugar daddy whose involvement in Sid’s life is purely selfish. And, Sid realizes, playing Burrows’s words back in his mind— _looks like Super Mario’s getting lax in his old age_ —it makes Sid’s failure to play the part of a good sub look like it’s Mario’s fault. It makes him look like he can’t keep a wayward sub in line. It makes him look weak.

 _I can’t imagine what it’s like_ , he remembers thinking last night—fuck, was it really only last night? It feels like months ago—as he held Karver in that hallway in Philadelphia while she cried. _I can’t imagine what it’s like to hear someone you treasure treated like trash_. He doesn’t have to imagine it, now. He can feel it. There’s shame and rage, of course, but more than that, there’s a nauseating sense of violation, as if he’d come home to Cole Harbour to find his childhood bedroom ransacked and everything inside torn to pieces.

“I have to move out,” he blurts out. He can’t believe it took him this long to realize it.

“Sidney—” Nathalie protests.

Sid scrambles up from his knees, looking anywhere but at her face. “I’ve really loved living here—”

“Then why do you have to leave?” Nathalie asks. She places a hand on Sid’s arm.

But he pulls away. “It’s inappropriate,” he says tightly. He still can’t look at her face.

Nathalie draws in a sharp breath. “Did someone say something to you?” She sounds angry.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sid finds a little shred of courage from somewhere and looks up, meeting Nathalie’s eyes. He says, as steadily as he can, “It was… I’m not a kid anymore. It’s not appropriate for me to be living with Mario like this.”

She shakes her head. “Sidney, people will always say nasty things…”

“I know that,” Sid says. Oh, does he ever. “But I don’t have to give them ammunition.”

He keeps his eyes fixed on Nathalie’s face, so he sees the flicker of frustration that crosses it, narrowing her eyes for a split second. He doesn’t let his own face give anything away. When Nathalie doesn’t say anything, he takes a slow breath and repeats, “I’m moving out.” It sounds very final. He meant it to. But he knows it’s a tissue paper proclamation – if Nathalie makes him fight her, he’s pretty sure he’ll fold. He holds his breath, waiting to see what she’ll say.

“Sidney…” Nathalie presses her lips together. Her eyes are wet, and he feels like the worst person in the world. He should have left a long time ago, before they had a chance to get attached. Now it hurts too much.

With difficulty, he asks, “Will you please help me find a house?” He knows it’s unfair. But he doesn’t know who else he can ask.

Nathalie just looks at him for a long minute, as if she’s trying to memorize how he looks right now, at this moment, here in this place. When she’s done, she smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “Of course,” she says calmly. “We can start tomorrow.”

She kisses him on the forehead, like his own mom would if she were here. “Sleep well, Sidney.”

When she’s gone, Sid sinks back down onto the pillow to kneel, but it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s empty. Even the clarity from before is gone.

He presses his head into the sofa cushions and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. He doesn’t cry. He’s a grown man now. That’s sort of the whole problem. Then he gets up and sends an email to his financial advisor.

 

*

 

Sid’s mom comes down to help him get set up in his new house. He told her that she didn’t need to, that he’d be fine on his own, but since he turns out to have been full of shit, he’s really glad that she ignored him.

Sid has literally never lived by himself before. He’s never been responsible for paying his own bills or buying his own groceries or arranging for maintenance or repairs. When his mom takes him to Target, he stares at the aisle full of fifty different brands and sizes and varieties of toilet paper in something close to panic.

When his mom sees his expression, she laughs, and gently starts explaining why he might want some kinds over others.

Sid pleads, “Can’t you pick one _for_ me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I could,” she says calmly, “but then if they’re ever out of that exact kind, you’ll just end up back where you were before, staring at the toilet paper aisle like it’s rigged to explode.”

Sid wants to be offended, but honestly, she’s right. So he sighs and settles in for a long morning about learning about the merits of various basic household goods. The whole experience leaves him seriously impressed with his mom—and Nathalie, and the sub parents in his billet families—for keeping all this domestic stuff clicking away so efficiently. There is way more involved in keeping a household running than he ever realized.

 _I could never do this_ , Sid thinks with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Not for somebody else. Not well enough to make them proud._ He remembers being a kid, heading down to the kitchen in the middle of the night for a drink of water, and finding his mom there meticulously wiping down the sliding porch door with vinegar and newspaper. He’d asked why she was working so late at night, and she’d told him a bunch of Dad’s work friends were coming over the next day for dinner. She gestured at the door, which was a mess of fingerprints at Sid-height and what was probably drool at Taylor-height, and explained, “It’s like that Windex commercial, baby: Streaky glass reflects on your dom!” She smiled at him—weary, but real—and added firmly, “Your dad’s boss is going to know he has a family he can be proud of.” (Sid had felt horribly guilty about making her work in the middle of the night; he’d been very careful not to touch the glass with his bare hands ever again.)

Most of the time it wasn’t like that – special projects in the middle of the night. It was all the little, everyday stuff: stuff that he didn’t pick up as a teenager like most subs, because he wasn’t living at home, and stuff that he doesn’t have the time or expertise to do now. Oh, he’s pretty sure that, with his mom’s guidance and the help of a regular cleaning service, he can keep himself from living in squalor. But that seamless domesticity— _a good sub keeps a perfect home_ —is beyond his grasp. It shouldn’t matter—it’s not like he didn’t already know he was a failure of a sub, messed-up inside—but it hurts anyway.

He likes to tell himself, sometimes, that he doesn’t care that he doesn’t meet the definition of a “good sub.” But when he’s being honest, he knows that’s not true. The part of him that longs, powerfully, to do with distinction what is expected of him, and to be what he’s been told he should be, is fundamental to his whole being. Its roots go down into the deep clay of his heart, and its branches reach into every part of his life, starting, always, with his hockey. To cut it down would be to cut _Sid_ down. So he lives with the times that it hurts him. He has to.

“Sid?” his mom asks, sounding worried. They’re standing in a furniture store, and he’s apparently been off in his own world while his mother explains the benefits of stain-resistant upholstery.

“Sorry, Mom,” he says, smiling as best he can. “Just thinking. I’m paying attention now.”

His mom nods, and starts her explanation again, but he can see that she’s still worried.

That night, as they eat takeout on Sid’s new kitchen table with Sid’s new silverware, his mom says carefully, “It seemed like you were… really happy at the Lemieuxs’ house.”

“I was,” Sid replies, and his chest aches at the reminder that he won’t be going home to the kids’ antics anymore, or Mario’s thoughtful advice, or Nathalie’s kindness and strength.

His mom nods, then hesitates. “I was… surprised to hear you were leaving, since you felt so at home there. Especially leaving so suddenly, in the middle of the season.”

“I… yeah,” Sid responds, which is no kind of answer, but he doesn’t want to talk about the confrontation with the ref with his parents. He doesn’t want to talk about it with _anyone_. It’s too humiliating.

His mom takes a deep breath and says, “If Mr. Lemieux did something to make you uncomfortable—”

“Mom!” Sid pushes back his chair from the table and rockets to his feet. “Shit, does _everyone_ think he’s fucking me?” he asks, his voice harsh with a mixture of shame and anger.

Sid’s mom looks bewildered; she reaches for him, heartbreakingly tentative, and his anger vanishes.

“God, I’m sorry, Mom.” He crouches next to her chair and hugs her, ashamed of himself for shouting. She doesn’t know the backstory—how would she, since he had just turned down the chance to explain it to her, not two minutes ago?

Her arms are around him, too, and she murmurs, “I just want to look out for you. I worry about you so much, Sid, and I know you’re a grown sub, but you’re still—you’re still my baby,” she finishes, sounding a little embarrassed.

“I’m okay,” he answers, which is mostly true. “I’m okay. But some people had been saying some stuff about me and Mario, and that’s why I had to leave. And I’m still a little sensitive about it, so I overreacted – I’m so sorry, Mom.”

“That’s alright,” she says firmly, pulling back to look him in the eye. “I’m fine. But I’m not any less worried about _you_ , Sid – what people? What kinds of things?”

Sid climbs back into his chair. Hanging his head, he tells her the whole wretched story – he can’t handle seeing her face.

When he’s done, she reaches out to hold his hand where it’s resting on the table and says quietly, “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“It’s…” _It’s okay_ , Sid wants to say. But. It’s not. “I was really happy there,” he whispers, and his eyes burn.

“Oh, Sid.” She squeezes his hand. “They’re still there,” she tells him, but when he looks up, he can see on her face that she knows it’s not the same. “You can visit, any time you like. I’m sure they’d love that. You’re still so close here,” which is all true, and he says as much. It doesn’t make him feel a lot better.

 

*

 

Once Sid’s mom leaves, his new house loses any warmth or sense of being a _home_ that it ever had, and he tries to avoid it as much as he can. He knows it’s dumb, knows he’s going to have to get used to the place eventually, but before too long, he has the excuse and distraction of the playoffs to keep him out of the house.

Their first series is against the Flyers—of course it is—and nobody will admit it to Sid, but he knows a lot of the team sees it as a bad omen.

To him, it’s the opposite. “We sent these assholes home last year,” he reminds the team before the first game of the series. “And after we did, we were fucking dancing in the locker room, drinking and singing and jumping up and down, and just—that was an incredible feeling, all right?” He can see his teammates who were here for last year’s playoff run nodding, starting to smile. “So remember,” he tells them, feeling the memory course through him, “that’s what’s waiting for us at the end of this series. That feeling. So go fucking get it!”

Sid doesn’t want to take any credit for it, but the team’s attitude gets a hell of a lot better after that. They hate playing in Philly, of course, but they fucking love beating the Flyers, and if he succeeded in getting them focused on the positive, then that’s all to the good.

They knock the Flyers out in Philly this time, and it’s one of the few members of the team who _wasn’t_ around for last year’s run who scores the series-winning goal: Karver, who blows kisses to the crowd afterward, ice-cold.

“That’s right, goatfuckers!” she yells joyfully, “switches score forehand _and_ backhand! Don’t forget it!”

Sid levels a look at Talbo, perfectly well aware of who must have taught Karver to talk like that, but he’s too happy to even pretend to be stern.

“You were right, Sid,” Talbo says innocently, grinning ear to ear. “This is a fucking good feeling.”

The next series is against Washington, and Sid knows better than to think that they’ll be as easy to knock off as Philadelphia was. The Caps are a disciplined, high-scoring team with strong goaltending – an upgrade in every way from this year’s Flyers. They’re a hard team to play, for sure… but halfway through the series, Sid realizes that he’s having _fun_ in this series in a way that he never has before. Ovechkin seems to have kept his promise about keeping his players in line, which means that Washington’s two wins at the Verizon Center and the Pens’ two wins at Mellon mark the longest stretch of NHL games in a row that Sid has ever played without being abused for his dynamic. It’s kind of incredible. He doesn’t have to steel himself against degrading slurs or groping hands on the ice. He can just… play hockey.

So he does. He ignores the press narratives, the so-called rivalry, and he gives himself up entirely to the game. He doesn’t need to hold any part of himself back. He scores a hat trick in Game 2, and Ovechkin scores a hat trick right back, because of course he does, and Sid actually catches himself _laughing_ on the bench, on the ice, with sheer competitive delight at bringing his best to bear against a truly worthy opponent. It’s fun in a way that hockey hasn’t been since those long-ago games of street hockey or pond hockey when he was a kid, before he or anyone else knew he was a sub. It feels like falling in love all over again.

In the handshake line after the last game of the series, when Washington basically fell apart, Sid clasps hands with Ovechkin and blurts out, in a moment of insanity, “Let’s do this again next year.”

He immediately flushes red, aware of how stupid that sounded—a series loss where his team came apart at the seams is not anything Ovechkin’s going to want to repeat—but Ovechkin throws back his head and laughs. When he looks at Sid, there’s a spark of something in his eyes that Sid recognizes, somewhere below the exhaustion and disappointment – an echo of that same pure, competitive joy. “Next year, different ending,” Ovechkin promises, voice low and intent.

“We’ll see,” Sid replies, unable to keep a smile from touching the corners of his mouth. Very softly, he says, “Thank you.”

“You want thank me, win the Cup,” Ovechkin says, equally quietly.

Sid nods, and moves down the line.

If the Capitals series was Sid’s time to shine, the Eastern Conference Final against Carolina is Geno’s. He plays all four games with beast mode engaged, racking up goals and assists and hits like he’s got a grudge against the world. Sid knows what it looks like when Geno’s playing angry, though, and this isn’t that.

When Sid asks about it after the third game, Geno thinks for a minute and says, “I feel a lot… alive?” He looks at Sid. “Can say?”

“Yeah.”

“Feel most alive,” Geno repeats firmly. He smiles at Sid. “I get from you. Last series, you same, so this series, I think my turn.”

“And next series?” Sid asks. His superstitious heart scolds him for jinxing them when they haven’t won _this_ series yet.

Geno sobers. “Next series, _everyone’s_ turn,” he says. His eyes are dark, fixed on the future. “Next series, for win Cup, all of team need feel alive.” He looks at Sid and smiles. “But captain help us, so we do.”

Sid smiles back, warmth spreading through his chest. “Thanks, G.”

And then it’s déjà vu – back in Detroit, back to the Joe, back to the headlines about how—despite Sid leading them to the Stanley Cup Final two years in a row—he apparently can’t lead his team out of a wet paper bag. Last year those headlines hurt him. This year, they motivate him. This year, he’ll prove them wrong.

Sid clings to that certainty through two losses in Detroit, then feeds that certainty with two wins in Pittsburgh. He uses it as a bulwark against the pain of getting blown out in Game 5, and as a fuel for the fire that keeps them fighting through Game 6.

Before Game 7, Sid feels like he’s walking through water. Everything seems slow, heavy – every voice sounds subtly off, hard to interpret. “You think we’ve been here before,” he says in the locker room, quiet and steady, “but we never have. We didn’t make it to Game 7 last year. And every game is different. Every game is a new chance for us to prove our worth. Our skill, our heart, our discipline, our teamwork. Nobody knows how this story ends. It hasn’t been written yet. _We_ will write it.”

He pauses. He could tell them that they’re the ones who have the power to decide the game; that the outcome is solely in their control. That’s what a dom captain would tell them. But Sid is not a dom captain. “There will be parts of this game that are out of our control,” he tells them, and he can see on some faces that it makes them uneasy, but he won’t lie to them. Not now. “We can’t control what the other team does. We can’t control the officiating, or the quality of the ice, or the noise of the crowd. But ultimately, those things are distractions anyway. It’s not about what we can or can’t control. We have something to prove to the world. We have a goal to strive for. And it’s about what we’re willing to give to get there. I’m willing to give everything. Are you?”

A thunder of shouts is his answer.

Sid gives all he can until his knee gives out under him. Max gives all he can, discovering a new gear he’d never played in before until the moment called him. Flower gives all he can, down to the very last miracle second of the game. They give all they can, every one of them.

And they win.

They win.

They fucking _win_.

“We fucking won!” Sid screams at Flower, too jubilant for anything approaching dignity or restraint. Fuck that anyway. None of it matters – not now.

Flower screams back, “We fucking won!” His arms are around Sid, and his helmet is god knows where, and the whole team is piling up around them, and everything is right in the world.

Everything after that is a blur – the Cup presentation, Geno’s Conn Smythe, the handshake line. What Sid remembers most of all is the weight of the Cup in his hands the first time he lifts it over his head, and the warmth of Flower’s arm around his shoulders in the locker room as he hugs Sid deliriously and mutters, “Fuck the haters, _fuck_ the haters, you did it, we did it—”

“Fuck the haters,” Sid whispers back, gleeful, living for this moment outside the bubble, before the cameras come in. “Fuck the haters – we showed them, Flower. We _showed them_.”

And then the cameras _do_ come in, but the alcohol comes in with them, so that’s okay. There’s champagne, of course; there’s beer, there’s vodka, there’s gin…

“Why is there gin?” Sid asks, bewildered.

“Detroit is weird!” Tanger proclaims, and then, “Let’s get gin-crazy!” plus some enthusiastic and very profane French, which doesn’t really answer Sid’s question, but also sort of does.

Eventually, Jen scoops up Sid and Geno for pictures – they want to get Sid with the Cup next to Geno with the Conn Smythe. Sid tells Jen, “I’m… kind of drunk,” and she laughs.

“I assumed that, yeah,” she says, amused. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything – just stand next to the Cup and look captainly.”

Sid’s respect for Jen compels him to warn her, “I might be too drunk to look captainly. Um… sorry.” He’s not that drunk _yet_ —although he’s pretty fucking drunk—but he had just chugged three vodka shots in a row before she’d grabbed him, and when that hits, it’s going to be… a lot.

She sighs, but she doesn’t sound mad at all – just fond. “Sidney, every other captain who’s had his picture taken on the night of a Cup win has also been drunk as a skunk – you’ll be fine.”

That’s a good point, Sid realizes. Jen is smart.

It turns out that Sid can do captain-face even when he’s three sheets to the wind, and Geno just sneaks sidelong glances at Sid and copies his expression, which works great for about three seconds until they both start laughing and then can’t stop. Every time Sid gets calmed down, Geno starts up and then _he_ sets _Sid_ off, and every time Geno gets calmed down, _Sid_ sets _him_ off. Jen tries to look stern, but Sid can see the smile that she’s unsuccessfully fighting.

Eventually, however, Sid realizes that he’s starting to sway, and if they want to get these pictures taken while Sid can be 100% sure of being upright, it better happen now. He tells Geno sad things about losing to the Flyers until Geno stops laughing, and then they both hold their poses for long enough to get the pictures taken.

After the photographers are gone and someone has whisked the Cup and the Conn Smythe away, Sid assesses his state of drunkitude and is slightly alarmed to find that he’s not _totally_ sure he can walk. “I feel kind of… wobbly.” He turns to Geno. “You should hold me,” he announces.

“Sid…” Geno’s eyes are wide.

“Up,” Sid corrects, belatedly. Wow, he has had a _lot_ of champagne. And beer. And vodka. “You should hold me up. So I don’t fall.”

Geno hesitantly wraps an arm around Sid’s waist. Softly, he says, “I’m not let you fall, no.”

Sid nods, which was probably a bad idea because it makes him even wobblier, but whatever. “I know you won’t,” he tells Geno. “You’re strong. You have strong hands. And you’re good.” He looks up at Geno. It seems farther up than usual. “You’re good to me.”

“Sid…” Geno sounds like he’s hurt, maybe, and that’s terrible – they’re all playing hurt, of course, Sid, too, but… Geno shouldn’t be hurt. Not Geno.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Sid asks anxiously. “You shouldn’t ever be hurt. You’re… so important. And good.”

“Not hurt, Sid, no,” Geno promises, and he smiles, although it’s not the bright, wide grin that Sid’s used to. It’s a smile for a quiet place, or for just one person, maybe. And he’s smiling it at Sid. He’s _close_ to Sid, so close that Sid can feel him breathing, and they’re all alone, and he’s looking at Sid like—like—

Sid feels like the world is spinning and strange, and it’s not all because he’s drunk. Something’s happening, he thinks, but he doesn’t know what. He starts to speak, and it comes out a whisper. “You look like you want—something. Um. I don’t know what you want.”

Geno’s smile is a little sad. “Don’t want to know, I think,” he says, almost too quiet for Sid to hear.

Sid is even more confused, now. “What do you—”

“There’s our captain!” Tanger shouts from the doorway, gesturing with an open champagne bottle. “And our Geno!”

Duper stumbles past him to offer Sid and Geno each a can of beer. “You need more _booze_ ,” he says, with the unshakable certainty of the deeply sloshed.

“Sid have enough booze,” Geno says, frowning at Duper. “He’s fall down if he drink more, no good, Pascal.”

Duper considers this for several seconds, then concludes, “More for me!” and starts chugging the beer.

Geno stays close by Sid’s side for the rest of the party. He only leaves Sid once they’re on the plane back to Pittsburgh, depositing Sid in his usual spot next to Flower.

Back in Pittsburgh, there’s more celebration, and a parade, accompanied by more champagne (Sid has sworn off of vodka). His parents are both there, and Taylor is there, and his _team_ is there, so it’s pretty much the happiest he’s ever been. And then, in the midst of the celebration, while Sid is at Mario’s house with the rest of the team, lounging by the pool, his phone rings.

He doesn’t recognize the voice on the other end, but he recognizes the name, and he listens to what the voice is saying with his heart in his throat. When he understands what’s happening, he says, too fast, “Yes. Yes, I’ll be there for the camp. It would be—it would be an incredible honor. I’ll—yes. Yes.”

When the call is over, he stares at his phone. He reaches out one arm without turning away from his phone, and catches Geno’s ankle. “G,” he says, half-whispering. He’s afraid that if he’s too loud, if he moves too much, the moment will be broken.

Geno crouches down next to him. “Sid? You okay?”

Sid clutches his phone to his chest and says, very slowly, “Geno, I just got invited to the men’s selection camp for the Vancouver Olympics.”

“Best!” Geno shrieks, sweeping Sid up into his arms so forcefully that Sid drops his phone. He chants, “Best, best, best,” hopping from foot to foot, squeezing Sid tight with the force of his joy. Sid can only imagine how inappropriate this looks, but he doesn’t give a shit, because it turns out he was wrong before.

 _This_ is the happiest he’s ever been.


	2. Chapter 2

*

 

Sid is a little bit nervous about Olympic selection camp. There are some guys he knows there from World Juniors or extended press obligations, like Tazer, but most of the guys are people he only knows from across the faceoff circle.

Everyone is on their best behavior, though, and that translates into everyone treating Sid—and St. Louis, the only other non-goalie sub at the camp—professionally.

“You’re going to make the team, obviously,” Aggie says, catching lunch with Sid and Flower during a break from the women’s camp schedule, held in the same complex. “So the other guys know that if they look like they can’t get along with you, they’re hurting their own case for being included.”

“It’s not obvious,” Sid mutters, feeling his cheeks heat.

Aggie makes a rude noise. “You’re the best in the world, captain. Of everybody at that camp, you’re the last one they’d leave behind. No offense, Flower,” she adds.

“None taken,” Flower says. His smile isn’t up to its usual wattage. He’d confessed to Sid that he was surprised to be invited, given Canada’s depth in goal, and he’s feeling some pressure to prove his place.

Sid hopes Aggie’s right. It would mean the world to him to be selected. He’s represented Canada before at the junior level, but this would be his first chance as an adult.

Sid’s not ashamed to admit that he wants a trophy case like the ones the greats have, and international success is a big part of that. But he also just… loves his country. Some of the people in it are shitty, but some of the people anywhere are shitty. Canada gave Sid a chance to succeed: it’s Canada’s laws that required major juniors teams to open their ranks to subs, and Canada’s laws that forced the NHL to do the same, years before the U.S. passed similar laws. Canada couldn’t protect him from the jeers of angry parents of opposing teams or from being ostracized by his dom teammates, but Canada made sure that there was a place for him on those teams in the first place, and as long as Sid had a place to stand on the ice, he could take it from there.

The hope stays in the back of his mind through the first half of the NHL season. Canada always has to be the last to announce its rosters, so Sid waits in suspense while Geno and Gonch are named to the Russian men’s team, Karver to the Finnish women’s team, and Brooksie to the U.S. men’s team. The announcements for the two Canadian teams will be made on December 30th, but Sid hears unofficially that players who were invited to camp will get a call the day before.

On the day of the 29th, they have an away game against the Canes, and Sid has never been so grateful to have a set routine that forces him to focus on the game and not on any phone calls that he might or might not receive. He goes through the motions, makes his sandwich, plays soccer with his teammates, and by the time he steps out on the ice, his mind is nowhere else but in that arena. They beat the Canes, more on the basis of shitty goaltending by Ward than any particular distinction on the Penguins’ part.

After the game, Sid notices Ward skating over to have a quick conversation with Flower. When Sid approaches him in the locker room to ask what it was about, Flower says, under his breath, “He told me that he got a call today saying he wasn’t picked.”

Sid’s eyes go wide. That was a classy fucking move on the part of Ward, who had to have been heartbroken, but still took the time to give Flower the good news.

Flower continues nervously, “He said congratulations, but just because he was not picked doesn’t mean I will m—”

In Flower’s stall, his phone suddenly starts vibrating.

“Answer it!” Sid hisses, as the room starts to fall quiet around them.

Flower picks up his phone and answers the call. After a few seconds of silence, a broad grin breaks across his face, which answers the question better than words could.

People in the locker room start cheering and Sid swiftly hushes them so Flower can finish his conversation.

When Flower hangs up, Sid says, “ _Now_ you can cheer,” and the rest of the team obliges. Everyone is crowding around Flower to congratulate him when, simultaneously, Sid’s phone and Aggie’s phone both begin to ring.

Sid darts for his phone as Aggie does the same, answering with his heart lodged firmly in his throat.

When the call is over, Sid’s eyes meet Aggie’s, across the room. He can tell he’s grinning like an idiot, but Aggie’s expression is unreadable, and Sid’s stomach lurches. _Oh, fuck_ , he thinks, _here we are celebrating, and she didn’t_ —

Aggie takes a deep breath, holding eye contact with Sid, and then suddenly belts out, “O Caaanadaaaaaa…”

Sid wouldn’t have thought his grin could get any wider, but apparently he was wrong. He joins in, “Our home and native laaaaaaaand…”

Flower throws back his head and croons, “True patriot loooooove…”

Their voices are drowned out—probably a good thing—by a chorus of mixed congratulations and catcalls. Meanwhile, Brooksie jumps up on a chair and starts in on _The Star-Spangled Banner_ while Karver begins an impassioned rendition of what Sid has to assume is the Finnish national anthem.

In the midst of the cacophony, Dan walks into the room, stops dead, then turns around and walks right back out the door.

Sid should probably be embarrassed by this lapse in professionalism, but… he can’t manage it. He’s too excited. He’s going to the fucking _Olympics_.

It isn’t until the next day, when he sees the full roster, that he realizes St. Louis didn’t make it. And it isn’t until the day after that, when the press has had time to digest the news, that he hears the first journalist justify St. Louis’s omission by saying matter-of-factly that of course there wasn’t room on the roster for more than one sub.

Flower eventually talks Sid down from his original plan of calling St. Louis to apologize for taking his spot—or rather, Flower eventually becomes so frustrated with Sid’s stupidity that he calls in the big guns.

“Sid, you did not take Marty’s spot,” Mario says gently. “And I know that on some level, you know that.”

“It’s not fair,” Sid says, and then immediately wants to slap himself in the face for sounding like a kid, and a stupid kid at that.

Mario’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. After a moment, he says, “No, it is not fair that some people are blaming you for Marty not making the team. And it is not fair that some people are saying that Marty did not make the team because he is a sub. But I don’t know that it is unfair for Marty to be left off the team.”

Sid gives Mario an incredulous look, but Mario doesn’t back down.

“Sid,” he says, “there are only so many spots, and Canada’s pool of talent is always very, very deep. Who on that roster would you trade for Marty? Who on that roster doesn’t deserve their place?”

Sid runs through the roster in his mind, and it’s true that there are no names that jump out at him as an obvious downgrade. But there are a few that don’t strike him as an upgrade, either. Quietly, he asks Mario, “Do you seriously believe that him being a sub had _nothing_ to do with not making the team?”

At that, Mario sighs and sinks down a little in his chair. “I don’t know, Sid.” He sounds tired. “I like Steve—” Sid’s confused for a second, then remembers, _Yzerman_. “—and he’s a friend. I would like to think that it never crossed his mind, or the minds of anyone he would hire.”

_I bet you would_ , Sid thinks, but doesn’t say. Mario is so, so important in Sid’s life, and Sid respects him on a level that approaches veneration. But Sid has never felt comfortable confronting him about the things he said about subs early in his career, or the donations he’s made to shitty dom politicians while Sid was living right there in his home. Their friendship or mentorship or whatever the fuck kind of relationship it is… it survives and thrives on careful navigation, like a ship that travels through rocky straits.

“Regardless,” Mario continues, his voice a little stronger, “even if Marty had been unfairly left out, the skater who took his place—the marginal skater, the one on the edge—would not have been you. _Bon sang_ , Sid, half the reason they took Bergeron was because he looked good on your wing at World Juniors.”

Sid flushes. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” Mario says firmly. He sighs again. “So please don’t call Marty, who I also consider a friend, and put him in the awkward position of having to make someone else feel better about the fact that he was not selected.”

Sid’s flush deepens. “You could have started with that,” he mutters.

Mario lifts an eyebrow. “I could have. But it’s important to talk things out. And if I didn’t make you think it through, then you might have gone to Vancouver resenting team management for not choosing Marty, and resenting your teammates for not _being_ Marty.”

_I still might_ , Sid doesn’t say. Mario’s right – he sees the futility in that way of thinking. So he nods instead, and asks, “Any other advice?”

Mario smiles, and then, surprisingly, looks wistful. “I only got to play in the Olympics once,” he says softly. “And when I did, I was so focused on the press stuff and on winning the games that I didn’t take the time to… I don’t know. To make memories. I don’t have many regrets about my career, but that’s one of them.”

Sid says, tentatively, “I didn’t know.” He’s guessing this isn’t something Mario has shared with a lot of other people, and he’s touched.

Mario smiles again, and taps his hand on the table. “Enjoy it,” he tells Sid. “That’s my advice, since you asked for it: have fun. Go watch other events, meet other athletes. Take silly pictures.”

“And make Canada proud?” Sid jokes.

Mario shakes his head. He says simply, “I know I never have to tell you to do that.”

The words keep Sid warm all the way home.

 

*

 

At the Olympics, Sid just assumes that he’ll be rooming with Flower. But when he gets there and gets his room assignment, he sees that he’s been put in with Shea Weber.

_Fuck_ , Sid thinks. He has nothing against Weber, but he hasn’t had to room with a dom since juniors. It makes sense, he guesses – there’s three subs on the men’s team, somebody was going to be the odd man out. But he needs to be on his game, and that’s going to be hard to do if he has to fend off a teammate every night.

“Shea’s good, though,” Lu says when Sid shows up at the room Flower is sharing with his fellow goalie. “I know him a little, and I know people who know him, and I don’t think he’ll give you trouble.” He’s doing a handstand while he says it, but that’s just Lu being Lu.

Flower agrees, “Same here, Sid – I only hear good things about Weber. It’ll be okay.” He smushes Sid into his side with a hug.

It makes Sid feel a little better to hear Lu’s and Flower’s endorsements, especially since they back up what Sid himself dimly remembers about Weber, who Sid had played with a little as a kid.

“And if he _does_ give you shit,” Lu adds, folding forward and then rolling to his feet, “you tell me, okay? You don’t have to take that bullshit.”

Sid appreciates the thought, but… “And what will _you_ do?” he asks, with a trace of bitterness – Lu’s older, yeah, but he’s still just a sub. If he goes at it with Weber, no one but Sid and Flower is going to take his side.

“Hey, now,” Lu says mildly. He walks over to where Sid and Flower are sitting on the bed, and he kicks Sid’s ankle lightly.

Sid mutters, “Sorry.”

“I’m old and wily,” Lu tells him, surprisingly seriously, “and I’ve got special goalie powers of crazy. Don’t underestimate me, Siddo.”

Sid smiles, unwillingly. “Don’t call me Siddo,” he mumbles.

“You’d be surprised how much power being the starting goalie gives you,” Lu continues, settling down into a hamstring stretch. “They _need_ you, first of all. That’s power right there. And it’s different for goalies, too, because they can’t just shove you out on the ice in a bad headspace and expect your best, like they would with a forward. If I say Weber is fucking with my vibe and I need him to change out in the hallway so I don’t have to see his face, trust me – he’s gonna be changing out in the fucking hallway. Flower will back me up on this.”

“That’s the backup’s job,” Flower jokes, before sighing and making a face. “I wouldn’t do something like say somebody needs to change in the hallway – I’m too scared, maybe, of getting labeled a problem player, you know?”

“That’s fair,” Lu says peaceably. “Everybody’s different.”

“But Lu would totally do it,” Flower says, shrugging. “He is a scary fucker. I say that with love.”

“I take it with love,” Lu replies with a grin.

Flower continues, “And I think I… _could_ push more than I do. I think. And for you, Sid,” he says, turning suddenly to look Sid right in the eye, “I would.”

Sid’s cheeks go hot and he has to look away. But it feels good. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“Come on, Sid-o-rama,” Lu decides, motioning for Sid and Flower to get on the bed, “sub cuddle pile, right now. There’s been way too much serious shit and talking about doms in the last twenty minutes, and I need some snuggles.”

That sounds pretty great to Sid, too, actually. With Flower’s goatee tickling the back of Sid’s neck and Lu’s surprisingly muscular chest warm under Sid’s cheek, most of his anxiety about his rooming situation washes away. He lets his mind drift, enjoying the weight of Flower’s thigh over his hips and Lu’s hand on his shoulder. The comfort of it rolls right through him like a wave. He’s safe with these two; they don’t want anything more from him than this. Almost distantly, he thinks, _I’ve never had a dom. But whatever that’s like, it can’t be better than this. No way._

 

*

 

Rooming with Shea actually does turn out to be totally fine. He gets off to a good start by politely asking Sid which bed he’d like. (Sid’s wariness has him choosing the one closer to the door.) Sid’s stomach drops when Shea says, “So, um, there’s one thing that I’ve kind of got to insist on…” but it turns out that Shea just has a thing about not being able to fall asleep if there’s any lights on.

“I’m pretty much the same,” Sid tells him, relieved. “So it’s no big deal.”

“Cool,” Shea replies with a smile. He unzips his suitcase and starts pulling out his clothes. “So, is your family going to make it out here for the whole thing?”

Sid nods. “Yeah, my parents were able to get the time off work, which is awesome. Yours?”

“Yeah, the whole Weber clan is gonna be here,” Shea responds, ruefully, “so if you see a bunch of giants in number six Canada sweaters, tell ‘em I say hi.”

Sid laughs and asks, “Your whole family is, uh…?” He waves his hand vaguely at the top of Shea’s head.

“A little bigger than Crosby-sized, yeah,” Shea says, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hey!”

So that’s pretty nice.

Sid had worried a little bit about being isolated during the tournament, rooming with a stranger and playing on a team of guys most of whom spend the rest of the season trying to fuck him up. But it turns out to have been dumb to worry. There’s Flower on Sid’s team and Aggie on the women’s team, and Shea turns out to be happy to tag along with pretty much whatever Sid wants to go watch or do. Sid doesn’t reach out to any Penguins—or other friends, like Jack—who are playing for other countries, but it makes him happy seeing them around or running into them in the cafeteria, maybe exchanging a few chirps.

Of course, just because Sid doesn’t reach out to the Penguins playing for other countries doesn’t mean that they don’t reach out to _him_. At the end of practice early on in the tournament, he gets back to the bench to find Geno standing by the tunnel in his red-and-white tracksuit, waving at Sid enthusiastically like a total dork.

“Gee, I wonder who he’s here to see,” Iggy says, deadpan.

“Oh my god,” Sid mutters, embarrassed but pleased.

He goes to join Geno at the entrance to the tunnel and has to dodge a hug, which makes Geno look hurt until he sees the camera flashes.

“They suck,” Geno mutters. But then he beams at Sid, annoyance with the media apparently forgotten. “Sid, you play so good already!” he crows.

“Thanks, G.” Sid feels a little spark of warmth under his breastbone at the praise. “You’re playing really well, too.”

Geno looks pleased. “You watch my games?”

“Of course I do, come on.”

“For video review,” says Geno, grinning, “because you know Russia biggest rival.”

“Sure,” Sid says. “But also because I just like watching you play.”

The tops of Geno’s cheeks turn faintly pink. “So nice, Sid,” he mumbles. “Have to go soon – we practice next. But I want to say you how good you play, and also…” He drops his voice and leans in closer. “I hear you room with Weber,” he says quietly. “If he’s give you trouble…”

“He’s not giving me any trouble,” Sid answers, touched by Geno’s concern.

Geno chews on his lip a little. “You promise? I worry maybe Weber make trouble but you don’t say anything because team, but is more important you safe, Sid—”

“I promise,” Sid says firmly. “Shea’s a good dom. It’s just like if I was rooming with you, okay? Except not as fun.” There’s actually a number of ways that Shea reminds Sid of Geno: his build, and the size and dexterity of his hands, but also the easygoing nature that slides aside sometimes to show the fierce competitor snarling underneath. It’s probably one reason he’s found it comparatively easy to trust Shea.

Geno’s cheeks are a little pink again. If Sid didn’t know him so well—in all his charming cockiness—he’d say that Geno was shy. Quietly, he asks Sid, “You think I’m good dom?”

“Of course you are,” Sid says, blinking. “You’re always respectful, and you stick up for me—maybe a little too much on the ice,” he adds, dry. Someone yells something in Russian down the tunnel, but Geno doesn’t react, so Sid ignores it. He continues, “You don’t touch me like I’m a piece of meat, or talk about me like I’m not there—”

The person down the tunnel yells in Russian again, and this time Geno winces and yells back briefly. “Have to go,” he says regretfully. “But… thank you for say, Sid. Means a lot you think this.” He moves forward as if to hug Sid, then catches himself and growls at the stands where the photographers are sitting. “I give you invisible hug,” he says as he backs away, making a miniature hugging gesture with his two index fingers. It’s unbelievably cute.

“I’m giving you an invisible hug back,” Sid says with a grin, imitating Geno’s hand gesture.

“Bye, Sid!” Geno calls as he turns away and trots down the tunnel.

“Bye, Geno,” Sid whispers. _I hope we don’t play Russia_ , he thinks. Somehow it’s a lot easier to imagine being Brooksie’s enemy for a day than Geno’s.

 

*

 

They do have to play Russia, and it doesn’t end the way Sid wanted it to: he wanted to win, of course he did, but he wishes it had been closer, for Geno’s sake. He’s guessing Geno won’t be dropping by any more of his practices—not that there are too many left.

Team activities come to a halt on the second-to-last day so they can go watch the women play the U.S. for the gold. Some of the guys sitting around Sid have divided loyalties—he can hear Getzlaf and Perry behind him debating whether it’s okay to cheer if Knighter scores even though she’s American—but Sid’s only teammate in the game is Aggie, so he feels free to boo the U.S. wholeheartedly.

The game is amazing, as Sid expected it would be. Freed from the need to dodge around giants like Shea, the women play their own game, emphasizing stick and edge work over bruising hits. The crisp, precise, tape-to-tape passing on display in this game is better than anything people will see in either of the men’s medal games tomorrow, and the quality of the skating is phenomenal – the women can turn on a dime, their ankles nearly touching the ice, and their acceleration is enough to make an NHL skating coach weep. At this level, and in this style of play, the distinction between forwards and defenders blurs: all five skaters on each team can skate backward just as well as forward, and all five are just as likely to join the rush.

Watching it, Sid aches with envy. There’s a part of Sid that loves the crash-and-bang of NHL hockey, of course there is… but watching a game like this makes the violence of the NHL seem like a distraction. What Sid is seeing now is hockey in its purest essence—skating, passing, shooting—with each fundamental skill allowed to shine in all its brilliance. Sid’s not sorry when Canada wins. But he’s sorry as hell that it’s over.

Sid and the other guys stay for the medal ceremony, holding their hands over their hearts as “O Canada” plays. He catches a glimpse of Aggie on the podium, singing along with enthusiasm, and he shares a grin with Flower, remembering that day in the locker room.

Afterward, they trail out together, headed for a video session.

“Sixteen,” Iggy is repeating incredulously as they walk out – he must be talking about Poulin. “I can’t fucking believe she’s _sixteen_!”

“ _I_ can’t fucking believe she’s a _sub_ ,” Getzlaf replies, in a tone of equal incredulity.

Sid stumbles; his feet were getting conflicting messages from his brain about whether to stop or keep walking.

His instinct now, after two years of captaincy, is to tell Getzlaf where he can put his bullshit. But he’s not the captain here, not even an alternate. This isn’t his team, and he doesn’t have any special right to set its tone. As Sid bites his lip, teetering on the precipice, Iggy turns to Getzlaf and says, “That was a fucking stupid thing to say.” The words are harsh, but Iggy’s tone is mild, without any edge.

Getzlaf’s mouth drops open for a second – then he snaps it shut and whips around his head to look at Sid. Sid follows Iggy’s lead: he doesn’t glare, but he does give Getzlaf his best unimpressed look.

Abashed, Getzlaf presses his lips together, like he’s giving himself a physical reminder not to open his stupid mouth, and keeps walking. No apology, but no further insulting shit. It’s not a perfect result, but Sid’ll take it.

Later, as he’s lying in bed, he realizes that nobody else on the team had jumped in to take Getzlaf’s side or defend him. That might just be because of Iggy, or it might just be because Sid was there, but it’s still good. It makes him feel even better about tomorrow’s big game – it’s easier to face the challenge ahead when he has confidence in the men facing it with him.

 

*

 

The day of the gold medal game passes in a sizzling blur of nerves. Sid’s stomach is churning pretty much nonstop, and he can’t really handle any socializing – any small talk wears on Sid’s nerves like sandpaper. He’s so fucking relieved to start his pregame routines, he could cry.

If Sid were a different kind of player, a different kind of person, he could talk himself down. He’s just one player, not even the captain. No one’s expecting him to put this team on his back. If he can just play well, that’s all that’s expected of him.

But that’s not the kind of person Sid is. Whatever anyone else expects of him, _he_ expects to win, and to have a pivotal role in earning that win. He knows he’s capable of it, and he won’t settle for less.

He doesn’t need to be told that the whole nation of Canada is depending on them to win. The atmosphere in the Olympic Village, and then in the arena, is wild, a sea of red and white. Aggie and her girls did their part last night, and now the baton is in the hands of the men. Only a total sweep of the hockey medals will satisfy the Canadian fans – anything else, and the whole Vancouver Olympics will be written off as a failure.

When it’s over, Sid remembers only flashes of it: the anticipation as he walks down the tunnel; the brief exhilaration of their early lead; the whiplash of Parise’s last-minute goal, sending them to overtime when they thought they’d made it home; the utter calm of the locker room in that last intermission, not a product of arrogance, but of the knowledge that they had no other option but to win; the moment when he realized he was all alone in front of Miller; the first shot; the second; the goal horn blaring; the crowd on their feet, screaming.

Sid can see from pictures, later, that he pretty much lost his fucking mind after he scored, but he doesn’t remember any of that. He remembers scoring the goal, and then his memory whites out from pure joy. His next memory is standing on the podium with his gold medal, seeing the Canadian flag rise in the arena and feeling an incandescent glow of pride and excitement. They did it. It was all worth it. And Sid… he was a part of it. He was the lynchpin. That will be his legacy.

He can feel it, or—or _see_ it, is maybe more accurate. He can see the picture of him that they’ll use when he gets into the Hall of Fame someday, and that the NHL will use to sum up his career when he retires. It’ll be _this_ : the Golden Goal. That other picture of him, taken from above, looking small and beaten-down, that the newspapers had used to compare him unfavorably to Lidstrom—

He’s wiped it away. It doesn’t speak for him anymore. _This_ speaks for him, now. The articles won’t start, “Sidney Crosby, who overcame the disadvantage of his submissive dynamic…” He’s made that impossible. He has forced them to acknowledge him as a hockey player, first: “Sidney Crosby, who scored the gold-medal-winning goal for Canada in the Vancouver Olympics…”

_And won a Stanley Cup_ , Sid reminds himself. That picture, too, will make it into the story.

Sid could keep thinking like this all night, stay lost in his head, dreaming of the future…

But he remembers Mario’s advice— _Have fun. Enjoy the experience while you have it_ —and he shakes his head, smiling. There’ll be time to ponder deep thoughts later. Today, he won a hockey game, a really _big_ hockey game, and that means it’s time to celebrate.

It was an afternoon game, and a lot of the team is made up of older guys with parental responsibilities, so the celebration doesn’t get too wild. They have a big group dinner with everyone’s families, and Sid gets a monster hug from Taylor, and more dignified hugs from his mom and dad. Champagne flows freely, but there are toddlers wandering around, too, so the vibe stays low-key and family-friendly – as far as Sid’s concerned, pretty much the perfect party.

Eventually, the party breaks up as kids hit their bedtimes and the younger guys take their celebration to the clubs. He says goodbye to Taylor and his parents, who are flying back to Nova Scotia tonight. After they pile into a cab, he sticks his hands in his pockets and strolls back to the Olympic Village. Everyone he passes seems to be smiling, and it makes Sid smile, too. He made his country happy today, he thinks. No small feat, that.

When he gets back to his room, he’s surprised to find Shea there. He would have thought Shea would be with the other young guys, hitting up the bars and nightclubs. From the look on Shea’s face, he’s equally surprised to see Sid, probably for the same reason.

“Oh, come on,” Sid says, amused. “Every hockey fan in the world knows I’m boring. The question is, what are _you_ doing here?”

Shea laughs, but he protests, “You’re not boring!” He falls backward onto his bed and sighs. “I didn’t feel like taking a hangover onto my flight home, you know? And I just… when I go out and party, it’s with people I know, you know? My Preds, or my friends from home. Not—” He shrugs, looking up at Sid.

_Not with strangers who I know mostly as opponents_ , Sid finishes the sentence. He says, “Yeah, I… it’s the same for me. I go out every now and then with the rest of the Pens, but I’m not much of a clubbing person to begin with.” Bars are okay, but in Sid’s experience, clubs are a gauntlet of grabbing hands, doctored drinks, and threats masquerading as propositions. It’s hard to have fun when you feel like you’re behind enemy lines.

“Yeah.” Shea rolls off the bed and starts gathering up the clothes that he’s left scattered on the floor. “I’m regretting it, like, a tiny bit now, though. I’m too amped up to just… go to bed, or read, or whatever. You know?”

“I do know,” Sid says. He pulls his gold medal out of his shirt, where he tucked it for the walk home, and then off from around his neck. He looks at it – the solid, irrefutable proof of what he’s accomplished today. “Today was really special,” he says softly. “I want—I kind of wish I had a way to cap it off. I felt… _so much_ today. And it’s all still there, bubbling away inside me.” He realizes he’s been babbling, and blushes, setting his medal down on the desk with a soft _click_.

When he looks over, though, Shea is smiling back like he understands perfectly. “I get that,” he says. Then his eyebrows lift for a second, like something new has occurred to him. “Hey,” he suggests, “you should go out, find a dom for the night.”

“You should go out and find a sub,” Sid deflects, trying on a smile.

“I’m thinking about it,” Shea admits. He laces his fingers together and extends his hands, stretching his arms out. “I could stand to work off some of this energy. We could head out together, if you want?”

Sid’s answer is automatic – he’s done this dance a million times. “No, I’m going to stay in. Thanks, though.”

Shea studies his face; after a minute, Sid looks down, hoping he’ll get bored. “Obviously you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” Shea starts, “but… can I ask why?”

“Why I don’t want to go pick up a dom?” Sid shrugs, still looking down. He could just say _it’s none of your business_ , but… he likes Shea, and he just… wants to say more than that. He wants Shea to understand.

“The stakes for me are pretty high,” Sid says quietly, avoiding Shea’s eyes. “I mean, they are for any sub: you let some dom tie you up and if they don’t respect your word, there’s jack you can do about it. But for me… you know how it is for me, Shea.” Sid sits on the end of his bed and rubs his palms against the polyester bedspread. “Somebody could make… a pretty good amount of money telling a reporter what I’m like on my knees—or, pictures—” He shakes his head. “It’s too much.”

“Shit, Sid.” Shea’s voice is full of sympathy. “How the fuck do you ever pick up?”

“I—I don’t. Not for scenes, anyway.” So now Shea can go back and tell the Preds that Sid really is as frigid as everybody says.

Sid feels bad as soon as the thought crosses his mind, and scolds himself. Not all doms are shitty. He knows better.

“You—never? You don’t have a collar, so… is there, in Pittsburgh—”

“No. There’s never—I’ve never…” Sid shrugs again.

Incredulous, Shea asks, “Never… at all?”

“I’ve had sex,” Sid says defensively, flicking his eyes up to scowl at Shea. “Other subs, or adynamics. But never…”

“You’ve never scened with a dom?” Shea sounds gentler, less horrified than Sid expected.

Sid shakes his head. When Shea doesn’t say anything, Sid tries to explain, “When I was starting out, I just couldn’t—couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t give the team a reason to get rid of me—”

_Now_ Shea looks horrified. “The Penguins were _never_ going to get rid of you, Sid—”

“And I wanted… this—” Sid waves his hand generally around them. “—you know, _so_ badly. I knew if people saw me that way, if my submission was shoved in their faces like that… There’d be no chance. No fucking chance.”

“But you got it,” Shea says softly. “Sid, you’re on top of the fucking world now. You’ve gotta know that.”

Sid blushes a little. “I… thank you,” he says, a little thrown off. He knows he should deny it, should make a show of humility, but if Shea’s the one who said it, then surely he wouldn’t judge Sid for agreeing? Sid hopes not, anyway.

He looks down again and stammers, “It-it doesn’t help, though. I mean, w-who would I ask? Who could I tell – ‘Hey, I’ve never subbed for anybody before and I’m probably going to be terrible at it, and by the way, you can’t tell anybody?’” He gulps in a breath. “I’m captain, I can’t sub for anybody on the team, and there’s—there’s nobody else I trust not to…” _Not to tell the whole fucking league that I’ve never subbed before, or what I look like on my knees, or worst of all—that they’re right about me, about what I want…_

“Well…” Shea says slowly. “If you don’t trust anybody but a teammate… until tomorrow, _I’m_ your teammate. And you’re not my captain.”

Sid’s head snaps up in shock. Shea sure as hell doesn’t look like he’s joking.

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, or be a creep,” Shea says, looking awkward. “If you’re not interested, I won’t say anything else about it, and if you don’t trust me, I completely understand, but…” He shrugs. “I was raised to believe that it’s a—an honor, to accept a sub’s first submission. And you’re… shit, Sid, you’ve got to know how good you look. So you’re probably worried that this is pity, but it’s… really, _really_ not,” he finishes, rueful.

Sid stares at Shea, feeling as if he’s just gone down on the ice and is looking up at the arena lights. Of course, _of course_ , he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He does trust Shea, and he does—he does want Shea. Looking back, he’d never have started this whole conversation or let it go on the way it did if he hadn’t been at least a little bit open to this kind of offer. Shea is _huge_ , and an unbelievably good player, and always kind to Sid without being condescending or weird. Shea is… perfect, really: trustworthy, but not under his authority as captain.

_But you can’t have this,_ Sid reminds himself, _you can’t, for all the same old reasons—_

The thing is, Sid is fucking _sick_ of those same old reasons.

Maybe they made sense when he was younger, but Sid _has_ things, now. Things that connote power – maybe even the power to break rules. He made it to the NHL, he’s the captain of his team, he won the fucking Stanley Cup, he made it to the Olympics—he won a fucking gold medal! He scored the medal-winning goal!—he’s won the Pearson and the Art Ross, and most of all, he has a team that he loves and trusts. If he shows up to practice in two days with a dom’s marks on him, some of his teammates may get a little weird about it… but they won’t freak out and stop treating him like a person. And they won’t run to press. That doesn’t mean there’s no risk—far from it. But the risk isn’t as huge and terrifying as it used to be. And Sid may have more to lose, now—but he also has a stronger position from which to defend it.

The fact of the matter is that Sid _wants_ , and if he doesn’t deserve this by now, he never will. This, as much as hockey, is what his body and his brain were made for, and he needs to know what it’s like, even if it’s just one time.

He still can’t have a real dom, not for more than a night—still can’t wear a collar or kneel for feeding, leaving aside whether he would even want to—but that’s part of why Shea’s perfect. He’s not offering to be Sid’s dom – just to take him down this once. And yeah, Sid can’t, absolutely fucking _can’t_ tell Shea what he really wants, but that doesn’t matter. Shea is a good dom, and Sid wants him and respects him, and Sid will let Shea do whatever he wants to him, and if that isn’t enough for Sid, then he’ll finally have his answer, at least – that he really is a bad sub and there’s no point even trying. And even that will have its own satisfaction. At least he’ll fucking _know._

_And maybe_ , Sid thinks, _maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the stuff I think I like, when it’s just in my head, is different from the stuff that I’ll like with a real dom. Maybe I’ll learn something about myself_.

Sid feels like he’s been sitting there thinking for ten minutes, but Shea is still sitting on the other bed, watching Sid patiently.

“Yes,” Sid says, as the earth moves beneath him. “I—I’d like that.” He feels like there should be a thunderclap or something, but of course there isn’t.

Shea smiles. “Great.”

For a minute, they just sit there smiling at each other like dorks. Then Shea says, “Right. So, uh, you want to get started?”

Sid nods. He walks over to Shea and starts to kneel, but Shea stops him, chuckling. “Not yet, Sid.”

Sid’s face burns. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Shea says, matter-of-fact. “We just need to negotiate, first, and you should do that at eye level.”

“Sure,” Sid says, still embarrassed. He sits next to Shea on the bed.

“So. What are you into?” Shea asks, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

Sid imagines saying, _I’m into you holding me down and touching me gently and making out a lot and telling me I’m good and letting me come and, basically, I’m into not doing a single fucking thing that subs are supposed to do except kneeling and doing what you say_. “I don’t really know,” Sid lies. “I haven’t done this before, so…”

“Well, what do you think about when you jerk off?”

Thinking fast, Sid says, “Just… vague stuff,” which is at least partly true. “Kneeling, somebody… telling me what to do, telling me I can come. I’ve always tried not to think about anything too specific, because I didn’t want to think about… inappropriate people.”

“Fair enough. Well, we’ll try a few different things, things that I like – and if it works out… you can think about me,” Shea says with a wink. Sid can’t help smiling back. “Is there anything that I for sure shouldn’t do?”

Sid chews on his lip. He knows that having too many limits takes the fun out of domming, and he doesn’t want to put Shea off before they’ve even started. But he thinks that, as a beginner, he’s got to be entitled to have _some_ boundaries. He starts with the irrefutable one: “I have to practice in a day and a half, so—”

Shea nods, understanding. “Sure, nothing that would stop you from skating. What else?”

_What else_ kind of implies that Sid gets at least one more limit, so he thinks about what stuff from porn he finds most upsetting, and decides, “I… you shouldn’t feed me.”

“No, yeah, that’s pretty intimate to do with somebody outside of a relationship,” Shea says as if that’s the problem – who knows, maybe it is.

Shea doesn’t prompt Sid for a third limit, so Sid takes that as his cue and hurriedly says, “That’s it – I can’t think of anything else.”

“Okay, great,” Shea says, in an encouraging tone. “For tonight, if I ask you a question, just say the answer – don’t call me any special title, just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or whatever the answer is. Okay?”

“Sure,” Sid says. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to wait for Shea to bring this up, but he figures it’s better to be safe than sorry. “Um, safeword?”

Shea nods, giving Sid an approving smile. “Yeah, that’s a really, really important part of negotiating. I like to use colors – red for stop, yellow for slow down or time out, green for everything’s good. Will that work?”

“Yeah, that works,” Sid says, relieved – he’s familiar with that system from the play-domming he did with Jack, and it’s the system they taught in health class at Shattuck.

“Good. I want to say one more thing about safewords,” Shea says seriously, holding Sid’s gaze. “Your safeword’s not there to make me or any dom feel better. It’s there for you to _use_ if you need to. It’s there to protect you. I want this to be good for you, so if it’s bad, I want to know. I _need_ to know. Using your safeword is not a failure or… or wimping out. It’s you being smart and looking out for yourself, and helping _me_ look out for you. So I’m going to ask you for your color sometimes. And I want you to think about it when I ask, and be honest, not just tell me what you think I want to hear, okay?”

Sid nods and says, “Okay.” He’s touched by Shea’s consideration, giving Sid more leeway with his safeword than an experienced sub would get. Sid will try not to take advantage of that consideration, but it reassures him to know that Shea is willing to offer it.

“Okay.” Shea smiles warmly. “Now you can kneel.”

Sid slides down to kneel at Shea’s feet, a little clumsy in his eagerness.

“Good boy,” Shea says, and pleasure blooms in Sid’s chest and up to settle into the back of his neck. Shea sets his palm right there over the home of that warmth, and leaves it there.

It feels good – in some ways the same as kneeling for Nathalie, but pretty different, too. He feels settled, grounded, like he did with Nathalie, but keyed-up at the same time. The anticipation of more to come, and the thrum of sexual attraction, are completely new.

Shea keeps Sid there on his knees for a while, just stroking his fingers through Sid’s hair and letting Sid get used to kneeling for someone who’s going to ask more from him than that. Eventually, Shea spreads his legs around Sid and pulls Sid’s head forward to rest on Shea’s inner thigh. Shea brings his other hand to rest at the button of his jeans and says quietly, “Color, Sid.”

Sid is confused for a minute until he realizes that Shea is asking if Sid is okay with blowing him, to which the answer is one hundred percent _yes_. Sid quickly replies, “Green.” He catches himself gripping his own thighs in anticipation; he’s had some practice giving blowjobs when he’s hooked up with adynamics or subs, and they’d seemed to think Sid was pretty good at it. The prospect of pleasing Shea, making him feel good—being good for Shea—is enough to make Sid shake. He wants that so much.

Shea gets his dick out, half-hard already, and urges Sid toward it with the hand he still has in Sid’s hair. “Suck me,” he says softly, and Sid obeys, sinking a little further down in his own head.

Shea’s not loud, but he’s not silent, either, and his grunts are threaded through with “Good boy,” and “So good, Sid.” Each word of praise makes Sid glow with pleasure. He can tell that Shea likes it, likes what Sid can do with his mouth, and Sid feels… grateful. Really grateful, to get the chance to please Shea, who has been good to him, and who Sid respects so much. He tries to show that by working even harder to please Shea – holding his breath a little longer, getting a little more creative with his tongue. He wants so, so much to be good, and he thinks… he thinks he can be.

After a while—Sid’s sense of time is starting to get iffy, which he should probably care about but doesn’t—Shea pulls him off and pushes Sid back to sit on his heels. Sid can’t hold back a noise of distress, but Shea shushes him, stroking Sid’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Shea murmurs. “You’re being so good.” Sid has to shove down a whimper in the back of his throat. “I just want to try something else now.”

Shea pulls off Sid’s shirt, then orders Sid to sit facing backwards on one of the wood-frame chairs, and to cross his forearms on the back of the chair. Sid grips his own elbows tightly and waits, trying to steady his breathing.

Sid can hear sounds behind him – some clinking, some clothing-related sounds. Then Shea says, “I’m going to hit you. Breathe in, Sid.”

Sid obeys automatically, not yet consciously processing Shea’s meaning, and then he feels the first stroke across his shoulders.

It hurts like—it’s not—

Something in Sid’s mind rejects the pain he’s experiencing, like a solid, emphatic _NO_ that comes from somewhere below his conscious thoughts. The pain is bad—and not like any pain he’s felt before, since it feels nothing like a hockey hit or an injury—but it’s not the worst pain he’s’s ever felt, so that’s not the problem. He just…

_I’m not used to it_ , he tells himself. _It’s just that it was a surprise. I’ll be ready for the next one. I’ll like the next one_.

Shea hits him again; Sid thinks Shea’s using his belt. Sid can feel the pain—can he fucking _ever_ , his skin feels like it’s on fire—but there’s no pleasure to go with it. _I’m still not used to it_ , he tells himself desperately, trying to strangle the voice in his head still going _NONONO_. _I will like it. I will_. _I have to_.

The third stroke across Sid’s upper back hurts just as much as the last two, and triggers just the same rejection from somewhere deep inside of him. _BAD_ , the voice says. _NO_.

“Color, Sid,” Shea asks, and _What the fuck do I do now?_ Sid thinks. Desperate for time to think, he blurts, “Yellow.”

“You doing okay?” Shea asks, coming closer. He sounds concerned, and he rests a gentle hand on the back of Sid’s neck. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Sid says, trying so hard to believe that’s not a lie. “I just need a minute…”

“Sure, sure,” Shea replies, low and soothing. “You take all the time you need. Say green when you’re ready to start again. Or red,” he adds, “if you need to stop.”

Sid breathes in and out and tries to think. His back is throbbing. If he lets this keep going, it’s going to get worse, maybe much worse. Three strokes in, and he still doesn’t like it, still isn’t getting anything out of it. The sweet warmth and stillness that had soaked into him when he was on his knees has been blasted out of him, and he wants it back, but he’d settle for not embarrassing himself. Pain is what Shea wants from him – what Shea expects of him. And Sid is a goddamn hockey player; he is tough. He can take a lot of pain. _Maybe the pleasure comes later_ , he tells himself. Maybe he’s not taking the pain right, yet, and he’ll figure out it if he just sticks it out. He can’t fucking punk out of his first scene ever. Shea’s not even asking him for something extreme or out-there. This is normal. Shea is normal. And if Sid’s not normal, the only way he’ll know for sure is to keep going.

“Green,” Sid says, and he tries to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Shea replies, “Okay,” and he strokes his fingertips down over Sid’s left shoulder. “Thank you for using your safeword. I’m proud of you for helping me take care of you. I’m proud of you for helping me give you what you need.”

Sid’s eyes sting, and he buries his face in his crossed arms without saying anything. Shea’s so fucking nice, and he’s such a good dom. He’d be so nice about it if Sid said “red.” He’d probably even get Sid off, after, if Sid wanted.

But Sid can’t.

As the strokes start up again, Sid lets them push him away from his body, away from what’s happening to it. It’s hard—really hard, because Sid’s always lived so much in his body, always paid such close attention to it—but it’s better than feeling the impact of the belt again and again, worse now that the strokes are overlapping. But then he feels like a quitter – this is his first time scening with a dom, maybe the only time. He needs to try to get something out of this. He needs to figure this out. _Fucking think, Sid_.

He remembers Shea saying, _We’ll try some things that I like_ , and he remembers the euphoria that he got from pleasing Shea, giving Shea what he wanted, and Sid wonders if that’s the way to get there. This is what pleases Shea; Sid likes pleasing Shea; if he thinks of it that way, he’ll like the pain. He sinks back into his body again, tries leaning into the pain instead of away from it. He tries to get back to that warm, quiet place in his head where nothing mattered but Shea’s pleasure and Shea’s praise, but…

Nothing. It’s useless.

_Great fucking job, Sid_ , he thinks, furious with himself. _What a good sub. You like pleasing a dom when what pleases him is what pleases_ you _, but when he asks you to stretch, to work for it, you go cold. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

His body is shaking like he has a fever, and his upper back is one ugly mass of pulsing pain, and it doesn’t _stop_ , why won’t it fucking _stop_? The instinctive rejection coming from deep inside him, the voice saying _WRONG_ and _BAD_ , never goes away. The pleasure he was hoping for never comes, and eventually, he stops expecting it will. The loss of that hope, sudden and absolute, makes something inside of him shatter.

_I’m broken_ , he thinks numbly. _I’m all wrong. I thought I wanted to know, I thought it was better to know than to wonder, but I was wrong. I wish I’d never said anything to Shea. I wish I’d let him go out and pick up some sub who wasn’t_ missing _something inside, a sub who wasn’t so fucking weak and selfish and messed-up…_

Sid’s disassociated enough from his body that he doesn’t notice, at first, that Shea has stopped hitting him. Shea is petting his hair and praising him, telling Sid how much he loved it and how good Sid was, and instead of the satisfaction that Sid should feel at pleasing a dom he wants and respects, all Sid can think is _Thank god it’s over_. _Thank god_.

Apparently Sid had started crying around the time when he realized he was a broken failure of a sub, which he thinks is totally reasonable, and Shea had taken that as his cue that the beating portion of the evening was over. Sid mostly just wants to know what the damage is.

When Shea gathers Sid up into his arms, Sid whispers, “Can I see?” and Shea shivers.

“You want to see my marks on you?” Shea smiles against Sid’s temple and starts steering them into the bathroom. “Let me tell you, no dom is going to say no to that.”

When they get to the bathroom, Sid cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, which pulls at the abused skin of his back and makes him hiss—but he forgets all about that when he sees.

“Holy shit,” Sid gasps, because his back is a _mess_. There are stripes everywhere on his upper back and shoulders, criss-crossing and brutal purple, wet with god knows what. His first reaction is horror, but he pushes it aside. He stares at the ugly wound that is his back, and thinks, dazedly, that this was no half-hearted session with a rabbit’s-fur flogger – this was a fucking _beating_. And Sid… Sid _took it_. He hated it, but he took it, and in the locker room two days from now, everyone will _see_ that he took it. These aren’t the marks of a weak sub. He’s a failure, he knows that now for sure… but marked up like this, no one else has to know. With these marks, no one will even suspect it. He’s broken, and hurting, and he’s never been more disappointed in himself… but he’s safe. Holy fuck, he’s _safe_. He had no idea what a relief that would be until now, until he had it.

“Thank you,” Sid is babbling, kissing every inch of Shea that he can reach with Shea still holding him up. “Thank you, thank you…”

“You’re so perfect, so fucking hot, like a dream…” Shea is murmuring back, and he’s so full of shit, but he’s so sweet – it obviously never crossed his mind that Sid is a faker and a failure, and Sid is so fucking grateful to him he can hardly breathe. Shea couldn’t make Sid normal, but he found a way to give Sid exactly what he needed anyway, without Sid saying a word about it. As far as Sid is concerned, Shea is _magnificent_. Shea is the _best dom ever_.

All of this is coming out in Sid’s continued babble, or at least the parts of it that don’t have to do with his own brokenness: “Just what I needed,” he’s panting, eyes glued to the mirror, “these marks, I needed them, you’re amazing…”

“Sid, if I don’t get off in the next two minutes, I’m going to die, fuck, you’re so hot—”

Sid jumps at the chance. “Please, let me suck you again, I want to, I loved it—”

Shea groans, and kisses him with desperation. “Fuck, just when I think you can’t get any hotter, Jesus, Sid.” He staggers over to sit on the edge of the bathtub and Sid falls to his knees so fast his knees make an unpleasant _thud_ on the tile floor.

As Sid bobs up and down on Shea’s cock, he can’t get over how… _alive_ he feels. He’s been on the good painkillers enough to know what flying feels like, and boy, this is flying. He feels the same warm, gut-deep satisfaction of pleasing Shea that he’d felt before, but it’s heightened now, like the difference between wine and vodka. At first, Sid can’t figure out why, but then he gets it: it’s the stew of adrenaline and endorphins his body pumped out when Shea was hurting him, singing through his veins and making everything feel _more_.

After Shea comes in his mouth, Sid lets his head loll sideways onto Shea’s thigh and feels the hope that he thought was gone start to grow again – just a little, but it’s something. _Maybe this is why_ , he thinks, with wonderment. _Maybe this is why subs like it – not the pain itself, but what comes after. Or maybe some like both—_ probably _a lot like both, but… I can feel this, at least. I can experience this feeling. That’s not much, maybe, but it’s something. Maybe I’m not broken after all. Maybe I’m still a real sub, somewhere underneath it all_.

“Look at that smile on your face,” Shea says softly, tracing the curve of Sid’s lips with his fingertips. “It’s a fucking crime, you going untouched all this time. Look how you love it. Ah, Sid – I’m so fucking lucky tonight, you know that?”

Sid doesn’t know about that, but he doesn’t need to – he just smiles wider. Here on his knees, sheltered between Shea’s thighs, soaking up Shea’s praise, the pain throbbing across his back feels stupid, irrelevant. He closes his mind to it and pretends it’s not there – nothing more than a queasy distraction. The pain doesn’t matter: _this_ matters. In spite of everything, in spite of Sid’s own stupid head, Sid managed to get one thing right tonight: he’d pleased Shea. He’d been good. Shea’s saying so right now, telling Sid how good he was, how obedient, how beautiful. Whatever else may have happened tonight, and whatever else people may say in the future, nobody can take that away from him.

Shea gets Sid up on his feet and deposits him on the bed after stripping off the rest of Sid’s clothes. Sid curls up on his side and tries to ignore the renewed throbbing of his back. He hears soft clinking sounds, and the whisper of leather across skin— _the belt_ —and he’s scrambling across the bedspread, backing away from Shea, before he even knows what’s happening.

Shea pulls up short with the belt stretched between his hands. “Sid? What’s wrong?”

_Don’t you come near me with that fucking belt_ , Sid swallows down. His teeth are almost chattering with adrenaline. He manages, “I’m sorry, Shea. I don’t think I can—take any more right now – or, not yet…” If he can buy time, he can think of some way to get out of here – he could fake an urgent text from home, maybe—

“Oh… no, Sid,” Shea says, in a reassuring tone of voice, “ _I’m_ sorry. I should have explained – I’m not going to hit you any more tonight. I wouldn’t even if you wanted me to. I just thought—bondage is the main thing we haven’t tried yet, so I thought I’d bind your hands with this…” He holds up the belt. “While I get you off.”

“Oh.” Sid feels stupid, but he’s still sure as hell that he doesn’t want that belt anywhere near him. He racks his brain, trying to think of what he could say, or do… But if he asks Shea to use something else, then he’s interfering with Shea’s dominance, topping from the bottom. No one likes a nitpicking sub. Sid tries to decide which he hates more: the thought of getting a reputation as a bad sub in his very first scene, or the thought of that belt touching his skin again. It’s a close one.

“Are you okay, Sid?” Shea looks at him more closely, concerned. “Give me your color.”

“Yellow,” Sid gets out. _Buy time, buy time…_

Shea nods. “Thank you for telling me. What’s the matter, Sid?”

Sid seizes on the one thing that he’s absolutely allowed to be picky about – that everyone _expects_ him to be picky about. “Hockey,” he fumbles, “my hands, I’m worried—”

Shea doesn’t look irritated or impatient. Instead, he drops the belt, then walks over to the bed and picks Sid’s hands up in his own. “These hands are important, for sure,” he says gravely. Then he cracks a smile. “They’re golden, after all.”

Sid blushes, and Shea smiles wider. He leans in for a kiss, which is… wow, _really_ nice. Sid can’t help chasing after Shea’s mouth when he pulls away. “Tell you what,” Shea says, low. “If you don’t want me to bind you at all, I won’t – but if you want to try it, I’ll use my tie, so it’ll be softer and I’ll have more control, and I’ll tie your forearms in front of you, so you can see everything I’m doing. You still want to try?”

Sid nods. It was never the bondage that bothered him – just the belt.

“Great.” Shea kisses his forehead. “Anything else we should talk about?”

“No,” Sid says.

“Kneel for me, then. Right here.”

Sid kneels on the carpet, facing the bed. When Shea comes back with his tie, he sits on the bed in front of Sid, hemming Sid in with his legs. Sid can feel Shea’s warmth against his sides, his arms – he already feels calmer. He’s pretty sure being tied up will be okay—it’s something he likes to think about when he’s alone, anyway—but it definitely helps to have Shea’s legs close around Sid’s body, pinning him in place. It makes Sid feel grounded.

At Shea’s command, Sid bends his arms to bring his wrists up in front of his chest. He flinches at the first touch of Shea’s tie—“Cold,” he mumbles, embarrassed—but as Shea winds the fabric around and around his forearms, it becomes easier and easier to hold still.

The pain in his back recedes a little, and the room begins to seem all at once dimmer and sharper. He can feel his breathing slow, and his head goes beautifully quiet inside. This is the feeling he found before, on his knees for Shea, pleasing Shea, feeling his touch and hearing his praise, and Sid chases after it desperately. He wants to drown in it until it washes him out from the inside – until all the pain and failure and disappointment is gone… or at least until he can forget about it.

By the time Shea threads the end of the tie through the loop and finishes the binding, Sid’s head has tipped over onto Shea’s thigh, and his eyes have drifted shut.

Shea seems to have caught a little of Sid’s mood; when he checks, “Color, Sid,” it’s barely more than a whisper.

Sid doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “Green,” he murmurs. Then Shea curves his hand around the back of Sid’s neck, heavy and warm, and Sid moans.

“You’ve been so good,” Shea says quietly. “Come up here on my lap.”

Sid gets his eyes to open long enough for him to climb up on Shea’s lap, his thighs splayed around Shea’s waist. When he’s settled, Shea takes hold of the back of Sid’s neck again, and Sid melts against Shea’s body with a long sigh.

Shea nudges Sid’s bound arms to the side and wraps his free hand around Sid’s cock. As he starts to stroke, he tells Sid, “You can come whenever you want to. You’ve earned it.”

At that, a little starburst of pleasure goes off under Sid’s breastbone. _I earned it_ , Sid repeats to himself, wrapping himself in the words like a warm blanket. _I deserve this, because I was good._ The intoxicating pleasure of the restraint on his arms and the heat of Shea’s skin against his own leave Sid reeling, hitching his hips gracelessly into Shea’s strokes… but it’s that final dose of praise and approval that opens Sid up until he has nowhere to hide from the pleasure, no defenses left, and he gives himself up, crying out into the crook of Shea’s shoulder.

Distantly, he can hear Shea murmuring, “Good boy. You did so good,” and feel him combing one big hand through Sid’s hair. Sid is aware of these things only as dispatches from some other country – for his part, he’s floating, floating, in a warm pool, cushioned on every side by gentle waves.

As Shea cleans them both up with a corner of the sheet and unbinds Sid’s arms, the floaty stillness starts to fade – it’s hard to maintain that kind of pleasant lassitude physically when a big group of his muscles are tensing up in a futile effort to ward off the pain in his upper back, and hard to maintain it emotionally when that pain is a throbbing reminder of his failure and shame.

Sid almost starts crying as the feeling fades – it was so good, so perfect, and now it’s just… gone. Why couldn’t it have lasted? Didn’t he earn that, too?

Shea chivvies Sid up to get them both into the shower; Sid’s legs are wobbly, so Shea wraps his arm around Sid’s waist to help him into the bathroom.

“Sorry,” Sid says, face crimson, but Shea shakes his head.

“Totally normal,” he says firmly. “No reason to be sorry, okay?”

In the shower, Shea takes charge of getting them both cleaned up, which Sid is grateful for. He’s pretty sure he physically _could_ lift his arms above his head to shampoo his hair, but he’s also pretty sure he really would not enjoy the experience. At the end of the shower, Shea turns him around and says, “Okay, Sid, deep breath – I’m going to wash your back.”

Sid takes a deep breath as instructed, then presses his lips together against the pain. _Fuck_ , he thinks, eyes squeezed shut. _Fuck. That really fucking hurts_. The pain doesn’t give him a proud glow of accomplishment or send him into a fond reminiscence of the scene the way it’s supposed to – it just sucks.

It’s the same when Shea leads Sid back into the bedroom and applies some kind of salve to the belt-marks while Sid guzzles a bottle of Gatorade, and then another one – no glow, just general emotional and physical shittiness, combined now with a little bit of nausea, although that could just be the dehydration. When it’s over, Shea plies Sid with food from the minibar and chugs some Gatorade himself.

“Hey,” Shea says, smiling at Sid between sips of Gatorade, “how are you feeling?”

_Good_ , Sid’s brain plans to say, only to be interrupted by his mouth saying, “I don’t know how to feel,” apparently having bypassed Sid’s brain-to-mouth filter entirely.

_Wow, these post-scene funny brain chemicals are no joke_ , he thinks. He looks apprehensively at Shea, but Shea doesn’t seem bothered by Sid’s unintentional honesty.

“I think that’s normal,” Shea says, matter-of-factly. “I was pretty all over the place after my first scene, too. But you should feel good, Sid. You definitely should.”

_I know I’m supposed to feel good_ , Sid thinks, this time successfully keeping his thoughts from coming out of his mouth. _But I don’t. And I don’t know what to do about it._

Shea finishes his Gatorade and sets it aside. He reaches for Sid’s wrist and pulls it to his mouth.

Sid’s breath catches as he recognizes the ritual gesture.

Shea lays a soft kiss on the smooth, thin skin of the very inside of Sid’s wrist, and recites the ritual words of the _canto_ : “You honor me with your submission.” Then he looks up at Sid and adds, “This was an amazing scene, Sid, and you should be really proud of yourself. _I’m_ proud of you. And I’m really, really honored to have been trusted with your first.”

Sid’s eyes feel suspiciously wet, but he blinks quickly to keep from embarrassing himself. This gesture and these words are nothing special—just the same old traditional capstone to a scene, putting a bow on it so you both know it’s done—but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be immune to someone he respects telling him they’re proud of him.

Fortunately, he knows the response by heart, practiced over and over again in health class, so his inexperience doesn’t hinder him here. He leans in to kiss the knuckles of Shea’s hand, still clasped around his wrist, and replies, “It was my honor to offer it.” Shea had said some extra stuff, nice stuff, so Sid tries to think of something extra to say, too. “It was… it was exactly what I needed,” he says, hoping that’s not dumb. “And you were really nice. Thank you.”

Shea smiles and pulls him in for a kiss. “You’re sweet,” he says.

Sid falls asleep that night with his head pillowed on Shea’s chest; his brain stays fuzzy and weird enough that he can’t really think too hard, which is nice, because it means he falls asleep right away. He tries to roll onto his back a few times throughout the night – the pain shocks him awake each time.

In the morning, Shea shakes Sid awake, murmuring, “Sorry to wake you – I’m having breakfast with Sutes and then heading to the airport, but I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Drowsy, Sid blinks at him a few times. “Mmkay,” he replies, yawning.

“Keep those marks on your back moisturized so they don’t go tight and impede your range of motion,” Shea instructs him, “and if you start feeling symptoms of subdrop, you call me, okay? I’ll be on a plane for most of the morning, but I can call you back as soon as I land.”

“Okay,” Sid answers. He’s mostly still asleep, but he thinks he can remember that.

Shea kisses Sid’s forehead, then stands up, hefting his hockey bag over his shoulder. “See you in a month, Sid,” he says with a wink.

“See you in a month,” Sid echoes. He’s fast asleep as soon as Shea is out the door.

 

*

 

When Sid strips in the locker room for the first practice after the Olympic break, the room goes dead silent, all at once – like someone cut the power when a stereo was playing.

Sid glances over his shoulder, and… yes, the whole team is staring at his back. Geno looks concerned, Duper looks confused, Aggie looks impressed, and Flower looks almost jealous.

Tanger clears his throat, and Sid tenses, but Tanger doesn’t seem to know where to go from there, and the silence stretches on.

Sid had thought a lot, on the plane ride back, about what he’d say at this moment. As casually as he can manage, not making eye contact with anyone, he says, “What, am I not allowed to celebrate? I won a gold medal, you know.”

It works just like he’d hoped: the room breaks into congratulatory hoots and catcalls, and then everyone gets back to their normal routines. Sid settles into the familiarity of his own routine, just taking a few extra minutes for back and shoulder stretches so he can counteract the soreness and tightness there. It still hurts to move his upper body, even after the stretches, but He doesn’t care: it’s not more than he can take, and it was worth it. The reception he just got in the room proves that.

He’s still not going to do it again, of course. The team is one thing—it’s silly at this point to say that he’s trying to keep them from thinking of him as a sub, since it’s obvious that they already do. It’s visible in everything from the dumbshit penalties they keep trying to take, to the way they reflexively try to pay for his part of the check in restaurants, even though he makes more money than they do. But the media, the league, the fans… that’s different. Nothing has changed there: they still need him to maintain the polite fiction that his dynamic is purely a matter of labeling, and ultimately, he thinks it’s still in his best interest to go along.

So even though he got lucky and nothing hit the press this time, most of the old reasons why it’s a bad idea to sub for a dom still apply. Plus, now he knows that he’d only disappoint a dom anyway. He can fake being a real sub, a good sub—he’d fooled Shea, after all—but sooner or later, he’ll slip up. Probably sooner.

So it’s not worth it. He’s glad he tried it, but it’s not something to repeat.

 

*

 

Sid’s kind of expecting to be interrogated by various teammates after showing up in the locker room marked-up for the first time, but in the end, it’s only Geno who asks him about it.

At lunch, just the two of them, Geno gestures to his own upper back and asks softly, “Scene okay, Sid? Feel okay now?”

Sid practiced this, too, on the plane. “Of course,” he says easily. “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

Geno chews on his lower lip for a second, then says, very quietly, “Because you tell me you don’t want dom. And now you…” He gestures at his back again, then looks at Sid, plainly worried.

The words _it’s none of your business what I want_ are on the tip of Sid’s tongue when Geno adds, eyes shadowed, “I know celebrate is… probably a lot of drinking, probably a lot of people around, people you don’t know—”

_Oh_ , Sid thinks – and once he understands why Geno’s asking, what he’s afraid might have happened, he can’t bring himself to just brush the question off.

“I wasn’t drunk,” he says firmly, for a start. “And nobody pressured me.”

Geno nods, but he doesn’t look completely reassured. “And… not want dom?”

Sid draws in a breath to tell Geno the truth— _At first, I didn’t want a dom, and I don’t want one now, but I won a fucking gold medal and that night, I_ did _want one, and I felt like this one time I deserved it_ —but he pulls up, flushing hot, when he realizes that would involve admitting to Geno that he’s only ever done one scene. He can’t do that.

“Um, when I said that, it was true,” Sid fumbles, trying to think as he talks, “and it’s still _mostly_ true, just… sometimes now it’s not.”

It’s not Sid’s most articulate moment, but Geno is nodding and the creases in his forehead have smoothed out.

“Okay, Sid,” Geno says. Ducking his head, he adds in a mumble, “Sorry for bother – is not my business, I know, but I worry—”

“I like that you worry,” Sid says. Geno’s cheeks turn a little pink, so maybe that was a weird thing to say, but Sid’s not going to take it back. “I like that you’re looking out for me, G. You’re a good friend.”

The look Geno shoots Sid in response is warm—or, it makes Sid _feel_ warm, anyway. Probably that’s the same thing.

 

*

 

By the time the Pens fly out to D.C. for their first game against the Caps since the Olympic break, the marks have faded – replaced by the usual assortment of hockey bruises that every hockey player carries from head to toe.

From the first shift, the Caps have their checking line out against Sid. It’s centered by this dom call-up who Sid’s never seen before and doesn’t think he’ll see again – the guy’s only talent appears to be running his mouth, and he’s not even creative enough about it to rile Sid up. Still, it sucks. Sid usually _likes_ playing the Caps, specifically because their leadership shuts this kind of shit down… or at least, they used to.

_Maybe something’s changed_ , Sid thinks. He remembers Ovechkin saying, _If any Caps give you trouble, you tell me, and I handle_ …

But doms say lots of things. He’s learned not to place too much stock in that. And anyway, the last time, the abuse was physical – Smith was in the middle of assaulting Sid, pretty much, before Ovechkin intervened. This is just talking – the same talking Sid hears in every other NHL arena. It’s nothing he can’t take.

Late in the second, the Caps get whistled for an icing halfway through a change, and Ovechkin lines up to the right of the center who’s been on Sid’s case. The call-up starts in on Sid again—Sid’s an uppity bitch who needs to learn his place, blah blah blah—when suddenly, Ovechkin’s stick whips out like lightning and smacks the dom in the butt. When the rest of the players on both sides turn to look at him, shocked, Ovechkin shrugs and says, “Stick slipped. Whoops. Too much talk makes distract.” This last sentence he directs pointedly at his center.

Sid’s so taken aback by what just happened that he almost flubs the faceoff. At the next stoppage in play, Kuni nudges him and nods up at the Jumbotron. “Looks like Ovi’s tearing that kid a new asshole. Gotta like that.”

The Jumbotron does indeed show Ovechkin on the bench reaming out the call-up who was shitty to Sid. “I do like that,” Sid murmurs, trying not to smile.

He’s not surprised when Gonch pulls him aside after the game and says in his ear, “There’s an idiot outside who wants to talk to you. But he is a good-hearted idiot.”

“That could describe a lot of people,” Sid replies, teasing.

Gonch rolls his eyes. “Including most of this team. I’m aware. But I think you know who it is.”

“Pretty sure,” Sid allows, and he heads out the side door Gonch points out to him. It leads into a small but open space with Caps memorabilia and kitsch lining the walls and littering the floor, and Alex Ovechkin leaning against the nearest corner.

“Sidney Crosby,” says Ovechkin, looking disappointed, “I say you tell me if Caps give you trouble.”

“I don’t have to do what you say,” Sid says steadily, then immediately winces. It’s true—it’s always true, with the exception of his coaches—but doms don’t like hearing it.

Ovechkin doesn’t freak out, though – instead, weirdly, he smiles. “Don’t have to, no,” he agrees, “but maybe I ask you, Sidney Crosby, ask you help me with this – help me be better captain. Better dom.” He holds Sid’s gaze, still smiling, and it’s—

_It’s confusing_ , Sid thinks helplessly, aware that he’s turning red and can’t seem to look away. Ovechkin isn’t getting in Sid’s space, he hasn’t said anything sexual… but Sid can’t shake the feeling that Ovechkin is—flirting? Interested, at least. And… expressing that interest.

It’s weird, honestly. Sid is so used to attention from doms being condescending, or threatening, or crude, that he doesn’t really know what to do with an expression of interest that’s this subtle and respectful. But the longer he stands here blushing, the air feeling charged between them, the surer he is that he’s not reading this wrong.

Ovechkin is asking Sid for something, not demanding or just assuming, but the choice is still the same: for Sid to yield, or to resist. To give Ovechkin what he wants, or to withhold it. And on the surface, what Ovechkin is asking is for Sid to report bad behavior by the Caps… but on a deeper level, what he’s asking is _Let me protect you. Let me be responsible for you_. Things a dom would do for their sub. Nice things – things Sid likes, things Sid wants. It makes his breath come faster, sparks a fluttering in his stomach. He doesn’t know what to do with these reactions, so different from how a dom’s come-ons usually make him feel.

As Sid continues to just stand there, flustered and unsure, Ovechkin’s smile fades a little, and a look that’s almost gentle comes over his face. “Not your job to make me better captain,” he acknowledges. “Is my job to know what my team is doing, keep them in line. Is okay if you don’t want to tell me. Not right for me to push.”

“It was just talking this time. I don’t like to complain,” Sid says. He’s surprised to realize that he actually feels… disappointed that Ovechkin backed off. He misses the fluttery, squirmy feeling, now that it’s gone.

“Complain?” Ovechkin makes a face. “No, nobody like complain. You right. But what about ‘communicate’? Communicate is good, right? You communicate with me, maybe, so I know if I’m being good captain?”

“Oh.” Sid blushes again – it’s dumb for just a different word to make him feel different about it. But it does. “Yes. I’ll do that,” he says, quiet.

Gravely, Ovechkin says, “Thank you, Sidney Crosby.” He pauses. “And maybe someday, when you trust me more, you tell me who is dom who teach you communicate is complain. I think I want to say some things to this dom.”

Fortunately, Sid doesn’t have to come up with a response to that, because Geno pokes his head through the door Sid came through. When he sees Sid with Ovechkin, he pulls up short for a second, but then he mock-scowls and tells Ovechkin, “Stop try to steal best center – Sid is for Penguins, get your own.”

“I’m not steal!” Ovechkin protests. “If Sidney Crosby see Caps best team, want to join, is not my fault.”

“I am _not_ joining the Caps,” Sid says, rolling his eyes. He’s grateful for the interruption. Mostly grateful. If Geno hadn’t showed up when he did… well, Sid’s not sure what might have happened. But he thinks there’s a good chance it might have ended with him making a fool of himself. He coughs and says, “Come on, Geno, we’re probably holding up the bus.”

As they turn away, Ovechkin calls something to Geno in Russian that makes Geno freeze in place. There’s something on his face that Sid doesn’t like – something hurt, or sad, maybe. But it’s gone before Sid can name it.

Geno answers back, also in Russian, in a low and even voice. Then he turns back to Sid and smiles – not his usual big, bright smile. “We go, Sid, okay?”

“Okay,” Sid says uncertainly. When they’re out of earshot, he asks, “Did Ovechkin say something bad to you? He shouldn’t—”

“No, is not bad.” Geno sighs – he looks a little tired, more than usual for after a game. “He just tell me do something, but is not my business and I tell him this. Sasha so nosy,” he concludes, but the irritation in his voice is mixed with fondness. So maybe Sid doesn’t have to be mad at Ovechkin.

A bunch of the younger Penguins go out that night, and Sid, somewhat to his own surprise, decides to go with them. He’s still got that flustered, squirmy feeling that Ovechkin sparked, and it makes him want to go out, want to be around people, to _feel_ something.

Sid gets hit on a fair amount when they go out, but tonight, he’s… attuned to it, maybe, in a way that he’s usually not, like he’s got an antenna up. Before, he’s always brushed off the flirting and the come-ons automatically, easy as breathing; now, he finds himself actually _listening_ to what the doms are saying, and actually _looking_ at them, assessing them, while they do the same to him. It’s weird.

That restless want is still sizzling along in Sid’s gut when a dom at the bar tells him sincerely, “You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” The guy is incredibly good-looking himself, and exactly Sid’s type, and Sid swore, he _swore_ that he would never do this again… but now he knows what it’s like, and part of it were terrible, but parts of it were wonderful, and he’s _prepared_ now, at least. He knows what to expect. And maybe the parts that were terrible will be different with a different dom, with different tastes. That would make sense, right?

That’s a nice pile of justifications, and they’re all even true. But the truer truth is that Sid has been denying himself this for a long fucking time, and Ovechkin made him _want_ , and Sid was smart enough to not do this with an opponent, a fucking _rival_ , but he’s not smart enough to go back to the hotel alone like he damn well should. For years, he’s been trying to get doms _not_ to touch him, but tonight, oh, his body is crying out to be touched.

_You are stupid_ , his rational brain berates him as he makes careful eye contact with the dom at the bar, the one who called him gorgeous. _You know better than this, he’s a stranger, he could sell his story to Deadspin, he could tie you up and then break your fucking fingers, you know_ nothing _about him and you have no idea what he knows about you and you are going to ruin everything just for the hope of getting something YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE—_

But it’s hopeless. Blame it on the alcohol, or on Alexander Ovechkin and his stupid smoldering eyes, or on the hopeless optimism that maybe this time it’ll be good the whole way through, but Sid smiles back at the dom who called him gorgeous, and lets the dom touch him, and gets in a cab with the dom’s hand around his arm and doesn’t bother asking for the dom’s name. He did enough due diligence in their conversation to be pretty sure that this dom doesn’t give a shit about hockey or know who Sid is, and that’s all he has the give-a-damn for right now. There’s a fire in him, in the delicate tracework of his veins, and he doesn’t know any other way to put it out.

They barely talk in the cab – Sid too nervous, the dom apparently too taken with Sid, which is a heady feeling in and of itself.

Once they’re in the dom’s apartment, they both just… stand there in the living room, just a few steps from the apartment door. Sid doesn’t know where to go from here, either literally or figuratively, so he just stands rooted to the spot, watching the dom watching him.

The dom is looking at Sid with frank hunger, and it feels good, but it makes Sid a little anxious, too. He tries to remember how the negotiation with Shea had started.

“So, should I… um, should I say what I’m into, or—”

The dom shakes his head, smiling, and reaches out to brush his fingertips over Sid’s jaw. “I can see what you’re into,” he says, and before Sid can figure out what that means, the dom’s fist smashes into his face.

It hurts, and it hurts worse because Sid wasn’t expecting it. Before he has a chance to move past the shock and the pain, the dom hits him again, this time right on the flat of his cheek, snapping his head to the side.

“I couldn’t believe it, when I saw you in the bar,” the dom says, shaking his head and grinning. Sid just stares back, frozen with bewilderment – this isn’t anything like how it was with Shea. The dom continues, “Those bruises on your face—there aren’t many subs with such a pretty face who’ll let a dom mess it up. I went out looking to get lucky, but I didn’t think I’d get _this_ lucky,” he says, before pulling back and punching Sid in the face again.

The thought of what the media will say if Sid shows up with two blacked eyes is enough to jolt him out of his state of shock. He thinks, _Safeword, I should use my safeword—_

But they didn’t set up a safeword, Sid realizes, his stomach dropping. So he doesn’t know how to get the dom to stop. When he sees the dom winding up for another punch, Sid is out of options. He blurts out, “Don’t hit my face,” and then winces at his own bluntness and adds, “Um, please. I… not anymore.”

If this dom were Shea, Sid’s pretty sure he would understand that Sid really means it – that it’s not part of the scene. But if this dom were Shea, they’d have set up a safeword first.

The dom steps close to Sid and runs his fingers over the greening bruise on Sid’s cheekbone. “You let the last dom hit you in the face,” he says, frowning. “Come on, how is that fair?”

Sid bites his lip, feeling guilty – it’s not the dom’s fault he mistook a hockey injury for a souvenir from another scene. “Um, it’s a sports injury, actually,” he explains, apologetic. “I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” _That’s probably why he didn’t negotiate_ , Sid thinks, feeling a little more charitable toward the dom – he really did think that he knew what Sid wanted. It was a reasonable mistake, right?

“Well, that sucks,” the guys says, disappointment written all over his face. He takes a step back and runs his gaze over Sid’s body, clearly reevaluating his decision to take Sid home.

Sid feels about two inches tall. He’s been submitting to this guy for less than five minutes, and already he’s been found wanting. “Should I go?” he asks, in a small voice.

The dom squints at him and orders, “Take off your shirt.”

Sid blinks, confused—does that mean he’s staying?—but he knows an order when he hears one, so he obeys, pulling his t-shirt off over his head.

“Pretty nice,” the guy says, surveying Sid’s torso. “No, you can stay. The face thing sucks, but… you can make it up to me.”

“O-okay,” Sid says uncertainly. There’s a voice in the back of his head saying, _I don’t have to make anything up to you, because I didn’t do anything wrong_ , but he shoves it down. It was a reasonable misunderstanding, he reminds himself. Besides, isn’t this what he wants: an opportunity to be good? To please? And deeper, murmuring on a level closer to his core than the first voice, something inside of him is saying, _Please let me not be a disappointment to yet another dom. Please let me get it right this time. Please._

It turns out the dom’s idea of “making it up to him” means whaling on Sid with his fists some more, just not on his face this time. Nothing about this feels like sex to Sid, or even like submission, but he grits his teeth and tells himself, _I disappointed him, I let him down, so this is how I make it right. If I take this, then he’ll be pleased with me again._ And in a way, it’s a blessing: the team saw him leaving the bar with a dom, so if he’d come back _without_ a fresh set of bruises, he’d have looked… _weak_ , he thinks _, spoiled, soft_ …

Eventually, the dom steps back and unzips his fly.

“Did I… did I make it up to you?” Sid asks timidly, desperate for the reassurance. He feels horribly off-balance – this isn’t anything like he thought it would be.

“Huh?” The dom looks at Sid like he’s crazy.

Sid wets his lips nervously. Voice cracking, he repeats, “Did I make—”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” the dom replies, distracted. “You did. Now suck my dick.”

Sid sinks to his knees, his head buzzing dully like a beehive. _He didn’t care,_ he thinks, numbly. _He didn’t even remember why I was doing it. He—_

The dom is considerate when he fucks Sid’s mouth, keeps his thrusts shallow and slow. Sid has always really liked sucking cock, and he tries his best to make it good—he can’t help it, it’s his nature—but the dom is in control here. All Sid really has to do is take it and try to breathe, so he shuts his brain off and loses himself in the physicality of the task at hand.

After the dom comes down his throat and steps away, he asks Sid casually, “You want to come?”

Sid nods without thinking – he’s hard, of course he wants to come.

But when the dom walks away and leaves him there on the floor, bruised and starting to feel chilly, and with nothing to do, the thoughts that Sid had pushed away come flooding back.

_I don’t understand what’s happening_ , he thinks helplessly. _I thought he wanted me to be good, but he didn’t care about that at all… and I thought safewords and negotiation were really important, Shea_ said _they were really important, but this dom is acting like they don’t matter, either. Did I do something wrong?_

The dom says, “Get up and get your dick out,” jolting Sid out of his thoughts. Sid obeys automatically, scrambling to his feet and pushing his jeans down on his hips. The dom spits in his hand and reaches for Sid’s dick.

Without thinking, Sid blurts out, “Could you…”

“What?” the dom asks, rolling his eyes.

Sid turns red – he’s not even sure himself what he was going to ask for. He knows what he really wants— _Could you tell me I was good?_ —but he can’t imagine actually saying that to any dom, let alone this dom. Just the thought of it makes him feel nauseatingly exposed.

“Never mind,” he whispers.

The dom sighs, put-upon, and says, “Yo, I’m not an asshole. What do you need?”

_That’s debatable_ , says a voice in the back of Sid’s mind – he shoves it down, scandalized. _Here he is, offering to do something nice for me_ , he scolds himself. _Don’t be a brat!_

He thinks about what he liked with Shea—being pinned between Shea’s legs, warm and still—and says, “Could you be… behind me? And use both hands. So… so my arms will be pinned to my sides. I’d like that. You don’t have to.” He would rather not ask, he knows he sounds pushy… but he’s starting to feel kind of shitty, and he’s honestly not sure he’ll be able to get off without some extra help.

“Wow, detailed,” the dom says, raising both eyebrows. “So suddenly you’re Mr. Top-From-the-Bottom?”

Sid was half-expecting that kind of reaction, but it pierces more deeply than he was prepared for. He reaches for his waistband and stammers, “I’m sorry, you really don’t—I’ll go, it isn’t—” _You asked_ , he thinks helplessly. _If he asked, why is he making fun of me for answering?_ He knows what the answer must be—that it wasn’t a real question, that the dom was testing him, seeing if Sid would try to boss him around—but it still seems unfair, somehow.

“Whatever. Just get over here,” the dom says, sighing. He shoves Sid around until he’s behind Sid, then reaches around for Sid’s dick. Sid’s barely half-hard, thanks to the chill and the embarrassment, but the dom’s hands are warm and he knows just how much pressure feels good. “You can come whenever,” he tells Sid.

Sid closes his eyes and manages to scrape together enough arousal for an orgasm. Having his arms pinned at his sides helps a lot; even though he has basically no rapport with this dom, restraint is restraint, and it still has the power to move him.

When Sid is finished, the dom wipes his hands on Sid’s stomach and steps away. He says, “This was fun, I had a good time.”

“Me, too,” Sid replies, with total dishonesty. He doesn’t want to be rude. He knows it’s probably his own fault for not negotiating more at the beginning. He puts himself back together as quickly as he can, zipping his jeans and pulling his shirt back on. He never even took off his shoes.

“Hey, you want to stick around for some aftercare?” the dom asks, absently. He’s not even looking at Sid. “March Madness on TV – we could hang on the couch if you wanted.”

“No, that’s okay,” Sid says. He knows he should, knows it’s bad to skip aftercare after a scene, but… he doesn’t want to stay here any longer than he has to. “I have to get going. My friends are probably wondering where I am.”

“Cool. You gonna get a cab?”

“Yeah, I’ll flag one down. Thanks.”

The dom waves at Sid, smiling, as the apartment door closes, and that’s the last Sid sees of him.

As soon as Sid is in the cab to the hotel, he starts berating himself for skipping aftercare… but he can’t actually imagine sitting on the couch watching basketball with the dom he just left. He feels like shit, and yeah, a lot of that is his own fault, but not all of it. With every passing minute, he’s surer that that can’t be all of it.

When he gets back to the hotel, he manages to make it through the lobby, to the elevator, and almost to his room before his luck runs out and he runs into a teammate. It’s Flower, though, so it could be worse.

Flower gapes as soon as he gets a good look at Sid, and whispers fiercely, “Sid, what the fuck happened to you?”

“Nothing, I’m fine—” Sid doesn’t, actually, feel fine – he feels hung over even though he didn’t drink that much, and dogged with a kind of chilly emotional misery, but that’s his own fault for ducking out on aftercare.

“You look like you were in a fight—”

“Well, I wasn’t.” Sid sets his jaw and looks at the floor.

“Was this… Sid, did a dom do this to you?”

“It was a scene. I wanted it,” Sid insists.

“You let them hit your _face_?”

“He stopped when I asked him not to.”

The silence that ensues is full of judgment. Finally, Flower says, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Flower. You’re always so nice to me.” Sid means to say it sarcastically, but it comes out embarrassingly sincere. _Shit_. He starts to head for his room – he can’t take being this raw around his teammates.

“Did this dom happen to give you any aftercare?” Flower asks, his tone deceptively mild.

Sid hesitates. “No.” _I walked out before he could_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how he could make Flower understand.

“Asshole,” Flower hisses. He slings an arm around Sid’s shoulders—it’s pathetic how much even that little bit of touch helps—and drags Sid off down the hall.

Flower knocks on a door, and Geno opens it. The minute he sees Sid, he looks horrified and whispers, “Sid, what happen?”

His reaction forces Sid to consider the possibility that maybe something is really wrong – his face doesn’t normally make people wince. God, he feels wretched. His head hurts and his stomach hurts, and it all fucking sucks.

“Sid went home with a dom,” Flower tells Geno, “who hit him in the face without negotiating first, then kicked him out without aftercare. I can take care of him if you’re not comfortable, but I thought it might work better coming from a dom—”

“Of course I help.” Geno motions them in.

By now, Sid is embarrassed to notice, he’s leaning on Flower just to stay upright.

“Here,” Geno says, and Flower deposits Sid into Geno’s arms. Geno pulls down the covers on the bed with one hand while supporting Sid with the other, then gently manhandles him into bed. “Flower, is water in fridge?”

“Yeah, I’ll bring it over.”

Geno climbs into the bed with Sid and pulls Sid close against his body. They’re both still fully-clothed, and there’s nothing sexual in the way that Geno is touching him, but the whole thing is still _intimate_ , without any warning, and in a way that he just doesn’t have much experience with. He doesn’t let dom teammates get this close—doesn’t let _any_ doms get this close. He feels dizzy, almost, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the lack of aftercare, or because of Geno’s hand curled over the point of his shoulder, strong and warm.

When Flower comes over with a bottle of water, Geno takes it and holds the mouth of the bottle against Sid’s lips.

Sid jerks back. Whatever else is going on, _this_ is too much. Without thinking, he snaps, “You’re not my dom.”

There’s a pause that lasts just long enough for Sid to really properly feel like a jerk for being so rude to someone who’s trying to be kind to him.

“No,” Geno says evenly, “but I’m friend. And friend can take care. If you want. You want Flower take care, is okay. You want Duper or Tanger take care, is also okay. Not have to be me.”

“I…” Sid does want it, is the problem. And he knows exactly how dangerous that is. Everything he’s feeling is so close to the surface, and Geno’s smell and the warmth of his body and his big hand resting on the back of Sid’s neck are making his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He gives Geno as much of the truth as he can. “I don’t like you seeing me like this,” he says in an almost-whisper. No matter how much his eyes burn, he _cannot_ fucking cry. “You must think I’m such an idiot.”

Gently, Geno says, “I’m not think idiot.” His fingers are stroking up and down the back of Sid’s neck now, and it’s so close to what Sid has wanted and pushed away for his whole adult life. “I’m never think. You have some water? Make you feel better.”

Sid takes the bottle of water and drinks about half of it, sipping slowly at first, and then drinking faster as he realizes how thirsty he is.

“Good,” Geno says, holding his hand out for the bottle, and Sid can’t help the warm glow in the pit of his stomach at Geno’s praise.

Flower asks, “Sid, are you… okay here? You can come back to my room if you want.”

Sid already feels a little better, so probably he could go cuddle with Flower and be okay tomorrow, but… Geno’s right, isn’t he? It’s okay to let a friend take care of you when you need it, even a dom friend. And Sid doesn’t really want to move.

“I’ll stay. Thanks, Flower.”

Flower turns to leave, but Geno calls out to him to wait. He tilts Sid’s chin up and ducks his head to meet Sid’s eyes. “Dom hit you just on face? Or other place, too?”

“All over,” Sid says.

“He put anything on bruises? Ointment, ice?”

Sid shakes his head.

Geno’s lips tighten. “Flower, you have ointment, I borrow?”

“Yeah, let me go grab it from my bag. Get some cold packs from the trainers, too.”

Sid hears rather than sees Flower leave – his eyes have drifted shut, sinking into the pleasure of Geno’s hand stroking through his hair.

When Geno speaks, Sid can feel the vibrations against his cheek. “Is okay I put on ointment?” He sounds uncertain, a little anxious. “You have to take off clothes, I touch – I think maybe is too much, maybe you want Flower do—”

“It’s okay,” Sid answers, without opening his eyes. “I trust you, Geno.”

Sid hears a sound start in Geno’s throat, but it never comes out. His hand stills in Sid’s hair for a second, then resumes. After a minute or so, Geno scratches his fingernails against Sid’s scalp gently a few times, and then untangles himself.

“You stay here,” G says, putting his hand on Sid’s shoulder and pressing down slightly. “I come back with cloth, ointment.”

“Okay.” Sid lets his eyes drift shut as Geno pulls the covers up to his chin. He can hear water running in the bathroom, and then Flower’s voice at the door, probably back with the ointment.

When Geno comes back to the bed, he helps Sid sit up and urges him to drink some more water, which he does.

“Now lotion for bruises, okay, Sid?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Sid holds up his arms at Geno’s prompting, and lets Geno pull his shirt over his head. Geno makes a noise of surprise, and then starts gently scrubbing at Sid’s belly with a warm, damp washcloth. Sid doesn’t understand why until he looks down and sees the white smears on his skin. His stomach churns—fuck, fuck, he’d forgotten all about the mess the dom had left on his stomach.

“No, don’t—” he gasps, pushing Geno’s hands away. “I’ll—let me get up, I’ll go clean myself up, and then you can—”

“Is fine, Sid,” Geno says calmly. He doesn’t look grossed out or put upon at all. “Clean is part of aftercare. Normal.”

Sid is pretty sure that most doms who end up washing dried-on jizz off of their subs at least got an orgasm out of it themselves, first, but he can’t imagine saying that. It would sound like a proposition.

“You really shouldn’t have to…” Sid trails off, watching Geno for any flicker of disgust or annoyance.

When Sid doesn’t say anything else, Geno brings the washcloth to Sid’s skin; when Sid doesn’t protest, Geno starts scrubbing again. Sid’s cheeks are hot with shame, but he can’t deny how good it feels to be cared for this way – to know that Geno is willing to do something so intimate for Sid, even when he didn’t get anything out of it himself.

“Not bother me, Sid,” Geno says quietly, eyes on his task. “Well, bother me because you deserve good dom, and good dom not leave sub a mess. But mostly happy to see, if I’m tell you truth.”

“Happy?” Sid asks, dumbly.

Geno shrugs. “Happy to see asshole dom at least let you come. If he treat you like shit and then don’t even let you come, he’s double asshole.”

When Geno is done, he tosses the washcloth toward the bathroom and smiles with satisfaction. “Nice and clean. Now I check bruises, okay? So I know where you need ice, and where just lotion is okay.”

“Sure.”

Sid holds still as Geno’s eyes travel over his front. When Geno finishes checking Sid’s front, he sits on the bed next to Sid and gently presses on Sid’s shoulders; Sid folds forward automatically, exposing his back.

Geno immediately lets out a sigh – of relief, it sounds like.

Sid makes an inquiring noise, and Geno explains, “Piece of shit dom, I worry he hit you here—” He lays a hand over Sid’s lower back. “—and shouldn’t do because kidneys, but I see he’s not, so it’s good.”

“Oh, I—I wouldn’t let somebody do that,” Sid replies, touched at Geno’s concern, and he means it; he doesn’t want to be picky or disobedient, but he’s got to be entitled to be picky about his health, right?

“Good, Sid. Is right – you don’t let.” Geno sounds proud of Sid – really proud. Sid’s cheeks flush, and he feels warm all over, without understanding why. Fortunately, Geno can’t see his face. “Good you say this,” Geno adds, stroking a hand approvingly over Sid’s lower back.

Sid’s dick twitches.

_Stop that_ , Sid thinks at it. _And where were you when I was getting punched earlier, which is what you’re_ supposed _to like?_

After Geno is done surveying Sid, he gently arranges Sid to lie on his left side. “Dom hit legs? Butt?” he asks; when Sid says no, Geno decides, “Can keep pants, then.”

For the sake of his weirdly misbehaving dick, Sid’s grateful to hear it.

Geno tucks two of the ice packs under Sid’s left side and one under his left cheek. Then he lays one on Sid’s right ribs and settles Sid’s arm down on top of it to hold it in place. Finally, he sets the last ice pack over Sid’s jaw on the right side, and arranges Sid’s left hand to keep it there.

“Good,” he declares. “Now ointment, or… lotion?” He examines the bottle that Flower brought, squinting at the label. “Lotion. Okay. I’m start with back and then do front. If anything I touch is sharp pain, or not normal for bruise, you say right away, Sid.”

“I will,” Sid promises.

Sid has to hold his head still to keep the ice on his face, so he can’t see much, but he hears the cap of the lotion bottle open, and then feels the bed shift as Geno leans over him to reach his back.

He’s braced for it to hurt—even if the intent is to heal, Geno is still basically going to be rubbing Sid’s fresh bruises—and it does, a little. But it also feels… good. Really good. Geno’s touch is gentle, and the lotion is cool on Sid’s skin.

Sid would have thought that the pain would undercut that pleasure, but instead, it feeds it. Because the pain is pretty mild, it weaves in with the other sensations—the coolness of the ice on his skin, the warmth radiating off of Geno’s body, the comfort of being cared for—instead of blotting them out. And the pain is intimate, personal – delivered by the bare hands of someone close enough to touch. Sid doesn’t know why those things should make a difference, but… they do.

The warmth and the closeness wash over Sid like waves on a beach, ebbing and flowing with the pleasure-pain of Geno’s touch. He can feel it starting to take him away, down into that quiet, still place, and he resists it. That’s not appropriate – this is aftercare, not a scene, and Geno hasn’t agreed to do that stuff with Sid, or to deal with Sid when he’s feeling that way.

So he blinks, hard, until his eyelids stop feeling so heavy, and he tries to find some other sensation to focus on.

The lotion Geno is putting on him smells good – clean and herbal. It’s different than the stuff Shea put on Sid’s back, which had smelled more like antiseptic.

So Sid asks, out of curiosity, “What’s the lotion for?” As soon as he says it, he flushes, worried that he’s just revealed his inexperience. But Geno doesn’t pause or make a surprised noise or anything.

Instead, he says calmly, “Depends. I’m not sadist, so I’m not expert, but I can tell you what I learn from school, and from Mama. First, if you break skin or burn or think maybe you break skin, then is disinfect.” So Sid was right about that. “For bruise, like this, is different – some doms think lotion for bruise is medical thing, too, make bruise heal faster, because… don’t know how to say. Plants in?”

“Herbs,” Sid supplies.

“Yes.” Geno pauses to pat Sid gently on his waist. “Thank you.” As he returns to massaging lotion into Sid’s skin, he continues, “But Mama say is nothing medical you can do for bruise, except ice, and she’s smart, best dom, so I think she’s right.”

“Oh.” Sid is feeling floaty and slow enough that he doesn’t freak out, but still, “Why are you doing it if you don’t think it helps?”

Geno hums. “Is other kinds of help, not just medical help. Put ointment means dom touch all bruises, can feel for broken bone or broken skin or bad lump. Also, put ointment show sub you notice every bruise he take for you, notice how much he give you, how good. So is good for this, also. And I don’t know, you know?”

There’s a rustling noise that Sid thinks is a shrug. “Mama say one thing, but other good doms, smart doms, say herbs and vitamins is help a lot, so is good to try, you know?” Geno’s hands leave Sid’s body for a moment; Sid hears Geno squeeze the bottle of lotion. “You like, Sid?”

“Yeah,” Sid whispers. “It’s really nice.”

“Then this is best reason for do,” Geno says simply.

A comfortable silence falls, and Sid finally lets his eyes slip shut, lulled by Geno’s slow breathing and gentle touch.

Then his stomach growls, loudly, and Sid flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry,” he starts, but Geno interrupts.

“Not sorry,” he says firmly. “Food is aftercare, too. I’m call for room service.”

Sid feels the bed shift as Geno starts to get up, and then Geno pauses.

“I’m not finish yet with lotion,” he tells Sid. “Almost, but no. So you stay just like this, just like I put you, until I come back. And I put blanket so you not cold.” He pulls the blanket up carefully over Sid’s shoulders, and then gets up off the bed.

With one part of his brain, Sid hears Geno ordering room service: “Salmon, yes, and steak, green beans. And cheesecake. You have chocolate cheesecake? No?” Geno makes a noise of dissatisfaction and mutters, “Cheap hotel,” before continuing, “Okay, normal cheesecake and then chocolate cake also.”

But the rest of his brain is entirely focused on holding still, staying just the way Geno put him. It feels important—really important—even though Sid’s not sure why. And it feels good, too, as if every angle of his joints, every place where his body touches the bed, is imbued with intention and purpose. Geno had arranged him in this way, and Geno wants him to stay this way, and Sid wants to give—Well. Sid has spent years refusing to think about all the things he wants to give to Geno. But it has to be all right to give him this. Doesn’t it? It has to be all right to close his eyes and sink all of his focus into his body, into keeping every finger and toe perfectly still—

“Hey, Sid,” Geno says softly, settling back on the bed. He pulls the blanket back, and Sid has another weird feeling he can’t really explain: a powerful desire for Geno to _notice_ that Sid stayed still for him, that Sid did what he said.

And Geno _does_ notice.

“Stay just like I put, yes,” he says warmly, ruffling Sid’s hair. “Very nice. Now I finish lotion while we wait for food.”

Sid hums agreeably. He feels like his heart is hovering a foot above his body, boosted up by Geno’s praise and Geno’s touch. _He noticed_ , Sid thinks hazily, joyfully. _He said so, and he touched me, and he was happy that I was good._ It’s the fucking best.

Sid just curls up in that feeling and lets it cushion him from the shittiness of earlier tonight like a pile of soft pillows. The trace amounts of guilt and shame that he’d been carrying about the scene being bad… they fade far, far into the background. They’re not strong enough to stand up to this warmth and light.

There’s a voice in Sid’s head telling him, _You’re being ridiculous – all you did was hold still for thirty fucking seconds, how is that anything to be proud of?_ But Sid’s having none of it.

_Geno was proud_, he reminds himself, smug as a cat. _Even if it wasn’t such a hard thing, I did it, and he noticed, and he was pleased. So there._

Sid’s reverie is interrupted by a knock at the door.

Geno gets up to answer it, but as he walks away, Sid’s higher brain functions start to return, and he suddenly realizes what a bad idea this is about to be.

“Geno!” he hisses.

Geno turns back to look at Sid – when he sees Sid’s agitation, he says bemusedly, “Is just food, Sid—”

“I cannot be on your fucking _bed_ half- _naked_ when that door opens!”

Geno’s eyes go wide. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, I’m stupid – okay, Sid, I cover you with blanket—”

Sid nearly laughs. “Yeah, that’ll fool them—”

Geno scowls and says, “Okay, I put you on floor, then, behind bed, but I don’t like, Sid – not nice for you on floor—”

Sid’s stomach growls, expressing eloquently his willingness to lie on the floor for as long as it takes as long as there’s some damn food at the end.

The corner of Geno’s mouth quirks up and he mutters, “Okay, Sid, okay,” as he hurriedly makes a little nest of bedding between the bed and the window. He helps Sid down onto it, and only then does he go to answer the door.

Sid has to take the ice off to eat, but it’s totally worth it – he really needed that food. He cajoles Geno into eating some, too, on the theory that hockey players are always hungry. Geno eventually gives in after Sid argues that he’ll get in trouble with the trainers if he eats both desserts all by himself.  
When they’re done eating, Geno gets rid of the plates and stuff, then asks Sid, “You want sit, or lie down?”

“Lie down,” Sid decides. So Geno stacks up some pillows, then joins Sid on the bed, one arm wrapped securely around Sid’s back.

Over Geno’s shoulder, Sid can see a book splayed out on the nightstand facedown, as if Geno had put it down in a hurry. It occurs to him that Geno probably had other plans for his night – plans that didn’t include staying up late to clean up some other dom’s mess.

Sid mashes his face into the pillows, embarrassed at having inconvenienced Geno this way. _Plus, I snapped at him_ , he remembers, and flushes. “I—thank you for doing this,” he says, not meeting Geno’s eyes.

“Happy to do,” Geno says right away. “Is important.” More quietly, he adds, “I’m worry when Flower bring you. You look…”

He trails off, but his face is drawn with worry.

“I felt… pretty shitty, yeah,” Sid confesses. His voice comes out small.

“Don’t know how he do,” Geno says, low – his tone half angry, half bewildered. “Don’t know how he—have you trust, touch you, you work for him, take pain for him, then… nothing. Just—fucking kick you out, no aftercare, piece of shit.”

“He…” This is hard for Sid to admit, in part because he doesn’t know if Geno will understand it at all. “He did offer me aftercare,” he says, quietly. “I just… didn’t take it.”

Geno absorbs this – he seems surprised, but not, like, shocked. “Because he treat you bad?” he asks. “Not negotiate, hit without ask…”

“Yeah,” Sid replies, relieved that Geno understands after all. “By the time the scene was over, I didn’t want to be around him anymore. I didn’t want him to touch me anymore.”

Geno nods. “Make sense.”

“I didn’t…” Sid tries to figure out how to put into words the instinctive _no_ that he’d felt when the dom offered to let him stick around after the scene. “I didn’t trust him to take care of me,” he says, and as the words come out, he can feel that they’re right.

Geno draws in a slow, kind of shaky breath, but when Sid looks up to see the expression on his face, he’s smiling. “Should only get aftercare from person you trust,” he murmurs. “You smart, know this.”

Sid blushes a little and half-shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s so much smart.” If he was really that smart, he’d never have gone home with that dom in the first place. “I just… my instincts were telling me this dom was… not the greatest. To put it mildly.”

“Is no good,” Geno says, frowning. “You best – best person, best sub. Should have best dom.”

“And who is that?” Sid asks, getting the words out past the ache in the center of his chest. For a wild second, he imagines Geno saying, _Me. I’m best dom for you_ —but of course Geno wouldn’t. Sid doesn’t know where the thought even came from.

Geno is quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking, or at least like he’s lining up the words in English to make sure he has them at his command. Finally, he says, “Best dom for you is dom who take good care, protect you, but not treat you like… like baby, can’t walk, can’t feed self, you know. Best dom is respect you. Best dom for you is treat you like… like special. Most special. Some doms expect always they first – not like if sub think of anything before them. Best dom know hockey is first for you. _Like_ hockey is first for you. Proud of you,” he says softly. “Proud so strong, so good sub want him for dom.”

_Yeah_ , Sid thinks, his chest so tight with longing that it’s hard to draw a full breath. _Yeah, that sounds really good._ When he flicks his eyes up to Geno’s face, Geno is looking back, and he feels caught in Geno’s gaze – exposed, somehow. Like Geno can tell how much Sid wants what he just described, even though he knows he can’t have it.

Geno seems caught, too. His breathing slows, and his hand on Sid’s back presses in, as if to pull Sid closer. The heel of his hand accidentally digs into one of Sid’s bruises, and Sid hisses quietly.

The sound seems to break the spell; Geno coughs and looks away. Carefully, he continues, “And you like hurt, like hit, like mark… so for you, best dom is sadist – dom who like pain, know a lot about best way to hurt, but still keep safe. Best dom for you have experience, know best tools for this, know how to use for hurt, for hit.” There’s an odd cadence to Geno’s voice – almost reproachful, although when Sid looks at his face, Geno’s gaze is unfocused, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Not best dom for you if dom can’t give you what you need, so… is important,” Geno finishes, firmly. “That’s best dom for you.”

And what can Sid say to that? _No, that’s not what I want – the doms on other teams who call me weak, prissy, selfish… they’re right. I can’t please a normal dom, I need to be indulged and babied—_

No. Sid’s never confessed that to anyone, not even to Flower or Taylor. He’s definitely not going to start with Geno – Geno, whose good opinion Sid has come to value so much, more now than ever.

So Sid says, “Right, yeah. That’s right.” And if he doesn’t sound totally convincing… well, his throat is dry. That’s probably why.

Sid can’t fall asleep here—it’s bad enough as it is that he’s been in a dom teammate’s room with the door closed for this long—so regretfully he disentangles himself from Geno and puts his clothes back on.

Geno doesn’t like it, but he understands why it’s important to Sid not to be seen coming out of Geno’s room tomorrow morning in front of the rest of the team. “But you go to Flower now, yes?” he asks anxiously. “Should not be alone, Sid… and need more water, still—”

“I’ll go to Flower,” Sid promises, texting Flower to scope out the hallway to make sure it’s clear for him to make his exit. “And I’ll drink more water, for sure.”

“And more ice for face,” Geno insists, fussing over the ice packs and their placement on Sid’s cheeks.

“And I’ll ice my face,” Sid agrees, trying to hide a smile at Geno’s fussing – it’s nice, and Sid doesn’t want Geno to feel like Sid is laughing at him.

“Okay.” Geno hugs Sid very gently, obviously thinking of Sid’s bruises. His thoughtfulness makes Sid’s breath catch. “Good night, Sid.”

“Good night, Geno.”

After slinking to Flower’s room—thankfully unobserved—Sid obediently drinks another bottle of water and ices his face. He has to fight a weird urge to text Geno to tell him about it, which would be the most boring text message ever. When he’s finally ready to sleep, Flower spoons up behind him. Sid halfheartedly protests, but he can’t pretend it doesn’t help. Lulled by the rhythm of Flower’s slow breathing, Sid falls asleep in no time.

 

*

 

Geno catches up with Sid outside the bus the next morning. He asks under his breath, “You feel okay, Sid?”

Confused, Sid nods. “I… yeah? I feel good. Of course I feel good.”

Geno gives Sid a look that makes Sid feel like a game-show contestant who’s just missed an obvious answer. “Is not ‘of course’ good,” he hisses, eyebrows arrowed together and lips pursed. “Have bad scene, maybe make you feel bad next day, more days.”

Sid shakes his head. “I feel good,” he repeats, with a small smile. “Because of you. That’s… you did really great,” he adds, not sure if it’s his place to say, “um, with the aftercare.”

Geno doesn’t seem offended. To the contrary, his chest puffs up like a peacock’s. “Thank you, Sid,” he says, practically glowing.

Something about it makes Sid’s own chest feel funny. He manages a mumbled, “You’re welcome.”

The aftermath of last night’s hookup is—thanks to Geno’s care—pretty much perfect. The bruises on his face have gone down enough that Jen deems him press-ready, but the bruises on his body are still livid enough to draw impressed looks and whistles in the locker room. Sid pretends to be blasé about it, but he can’t deny the warmth he feels at the reaction. _They think I’m a good sub_ , he thinks, with a soft thrill vibrating through him. _They don’t think I’m weak or messed-up_. And because Flower and Geno keep their mouths shut, nobody knows that he got these marks from a shitty dom who he should have known better than to go home with. He has the bruises, and the respect that comes with them, without anyone knowing the parts that make him look bad or feel ashamed.

Of course, the fact that this one time turned out well in the end, thanks mostly to Sid imposing inappropriately on Geno and making him do a bunch of work for Sid for nothing, does _not_ mean that he should do it again. In fact, it means the opposite. There’s no guarantee that Geno would be feeling so generous if it happened again, and Sid’s not sure he could bear to ask any of the other doms on the team; maybe Aggie, or Duper, but… _It was really intimate_ , Sid remembers, blushing a little. So maybe not.

He’s uncomfortably aware, though, that he made this same resolution—not to scene with a dom again—right after the Olympics, and last night he broke it anyway. _Remember how shitty it felt afterward_ , he instructs himself sternly. _Imagine if you’d felt that way all night and then all day today. Do you want that? No. And having a bad scene and dropping afterward is probably the_ best _case scenario: you could have been assaulted, he could have been lying about not knowing who you were, you could have been in pictures all over the internet…_

So no more pick-ups. Sid means it this time. He’ll have to find other outlets for his newly active and hungry submission.

As soon as Sid has that thought, Dan starts running through their upcoming schedule and Sid hears “Nashville.” A shiver goes through him. _There’s an outlet_ , a treacherous voice in his brain volunteers. He suppresses the urge to whack his head into the wall a few times. _Shut up, brain_ , he replies, _you’re not helping_.

Three days later, though, Sid’s phone buzzes with a text from Shea. Sid’s stomach does a little flip-flop. The text just says, _Want to hang out after the game next week?_

Sid’s heart starts racing. He takes a deep breath and tries to be cool about this. Maybe Shea just wants to get drinks or something – it doesn’t necessarily mean he wants to scene. _But it might_ , Sid thinks, and then his dumb heartbeat is off to the races again.

_Think_ , he admonishes himself. _If Shea does want to scene, do I want that? If he doesn’t, what then?_

The second question is easier. Sid genuinely likes Shea as a friend, and if all Shea wants is drinks and conversation, Sid would still have a good time.

The first one… that’s harder. There’s definitely a part of Sid that’s saying an emphatic _Yes_ – Shea is big and handsome and really good at hockey, and more importantly, he’s trustworthy. He is, in fact, the only dom in the world that Sid knows for sure is trustworthy, apart from people Sid wouldn’t consider sleeping with: family, teammates, and other people’s doms. If Sid wants to feel that blissful feeling he got during the good parts of his scene with Shea, or during aftercare with Geno, this is basically his only chance.

But it’s not that easy. Because there were parts of the scene with Shea that _weren’t_ good. _Really_ weren’t good. And that stuff… Sid doesn’t want to do that again. Not if he can avoid it. The problem is, he’s pretty sure the only way to avoid that stuff would be to avoid doing scenes altogether, and even though that was easy for him before, he thinks it might not be so easy now – now that he knows what he’d be missing. He _wants_ now. And if you want the good, you have to take the bad. That’s only fair.

Sid weighs the downside of the pain against the potential upside of getting to feel those things he felt the first time: the incredible relief he’d experienced for days afterward; the warm, floaty sensation he’d felt during the aftercare; the deep erotic thrill of being praised and knowing he was pleasing his partner; the safety and comfort he’d felt on his knees and in Shea’s bondage, knowing that Shea would take care of him. _It’s worth it_ , he thinks, aware that his thoughts are driven more by the sharpness of his yearning than by any rational consideration. _Just this one time more. If there’s a lot of really bad stuff this time, too, then I’ll know better next time and I won’t do it again._

With that decided, Sid turns to the also-difficult decision of what to say back to Shea. He needs to indicate that he’s up for either friend-drinks or for a scene, but it has to be discreet – something that would look innocent if his or Shea’s phone got hacked… or stolen by a mischievous teammate.

Sid types, _Yes_ , then discards it – too impersonal. He tries _you bet_ and _yep_ and _yeah_ , then rolls his eyes at himself. _Sounds good_ is too noncommittal; _that would be awesome_ , too enthusiastic. Eventually, he types out, _I’d like that_ , and forces himself to send it, because even if it is too awkward or too formal or too awkwardly formal, at least it’s _something_.

The more delicate task of how to indicate that he’s up for either option without putting anything incriminating in writing turns out to be easier, oddly. Sid settles on, _Do you want to meet up at a bar, or meet at my place and decide where to go from there?_

Of course, then he’s stuck waiting for a response, which is unbearable. He eventually has to stick his phone under the hotel bed and walk away because he’s irritating himself so much with how frequently he’s checking it. When he gets back to the room after a couple rounds of Super Smash Bros., he dives for the phone and pulls it out from under the bed. There’s a new message.

_Let’s meet at your place_.

Sid’s breath catches, and his stomach starts up its flip-flopping antics again. _I am never gonna get to sleep tonight_ , he thinks, and he’s not even sorry.

Sid spends the intervening week obsessing, off-and-on. He pays the cleaning service for the “deluxe” cleaning, whatever that is, and tries not to live in the house at all, basically, once they’re done, for fear of making it dirty. He stocks the fridge and freezer and liquor cabinet. He realizes the day before the game that he should probably have, like, a whole play chest full of subbing stuff, and starts freaking out—but then he remembers that Shea knows he’s inexperienced, so he probably won’t expect Sid to have all that stuff yet. Plus, there’s no freaking way Sid is walking into a store and buying stuff that would tell people what he likes in bed, so Shea is just going to have to get creative.

After the game, Sid drives Shea home, chatting along the way about the league and about Shea’s dogs. It reminds him of the reasons why he trusted Shea in the first place: Shea’s just a really decent human being, and he treats Sid like an equal, always. It’s nice.

When they get to Sid’s house, Sid asks Shea if he wants a drink.

Shea hesitates. “That, uh, depends. I may have been totally reading this wrong, but you did invite me over… to scene, yeah? I mean, it’s totally fine if not, and I can just take you up on that drink—”

“You weren’t reading it wrong,” Sid says quickly. There’s a thrumming in his bones, now that he knows for sure where they’re going. “I want that,” he adds, and then, feeling a surge of boldness, “I want you.”

Shea’s eyes darken, and he smiles. “You, too.”

They’re a few feet apart, but Sid feels like he’s close enough to feel the heat of Shea’s body. “So you don’t want that drink, then.” His voice comes out throaty.

Shea’s smile broadens, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m here for something else.”

_Yeah_ , Sid thinks. “Let me show you the bedroom,” he says.

They end up sitting side-by-side on Sid’s bed, just like they did in the hotel room the last time. Their thighs are touching, and Shea towers over Sid a little bit, in the best way.

Shea’s eyes are fixed on Sid’s mouth when he says, “We’re going to negotiate. I’m not going to shortchange that, I promise. But I really fucking want to kiss you, Sid—”

Heat flares in Sid’s gut. “Please,” he murmurs, and Shea kisses him, hard. He doesn’t pull back to let Sid breathe until Sid is lightheaded.

“Okay,” Shea says, hoarsely. “Okay, that was good. So. Negotiation, right.” He smiles at Sid, and says, with confidence, “I think I have a pretty good idea of what you like, because of what you liked last time, but you should tell me if there’s anything in particular you’re looking for – and stuff you don’t want, too. That’s important.”

_Oh, shit_ , Sid thinks, frozen. When Shea says “stuff you liked last time,” he’s got to be including the belt stuff, because as far as Shea ever knew, Sid was super into that. Sid never corrected that impression—to the contrary, he encouraged it—and now Shea almost certainly thinks he wants to do it again, when that’s the last fucking thing in the world that he wants.

Sid thinks as fast as he can, trying not to let anything show on his face. He can’t say that he didn’t like being hit with the belt – he’s made his bed on that and now he has to lie in it. But what had Shea asked? _If there’s anything in particular you’re looking for_ …

Maybe Sid can sort of… direct Shea to doing something else. It’ll be a tricky balance, since he doesn’t want to sound picky or interfere with Shea’s dominance. His pick-up’s comment about “topping from the bottom” still stings. But he’s not coming up with any better plans.

Sid wets his lips with his tongue and starts, “I did some, um… exploring. Since last time. And I think I—I would really like it if you used your bare hands. Um. It’s fine if you don’t want to.” That’s what he had liked with Geno, anyway – and even with the dom he had picked up at the bar, Sid had tolerated his fists better than Shea’s belt.

“That sounds really good to me,” Shea says, nodding. “Plus, it saves me having to hunt through your house for an impact toy.”

“Oh, yeah, good point,” Sid agrees, almost dazed with how easy that was. “Awesome.” He’s accomplished what he set out to do, so he gives Shea an expectant look, waiting for him to take over—

But Shea prompts him, “What else?”

“What else do I like?” Sid asks, a little confused.

“Yeah.”

Shea had said he already knew what Sid liked, because of last time. Is he testing Sid somehow?

Cautiously, Sid says, “I—do you remember last time, when you tied my hands…”

Shea’s smile goes soft. “I remember.”

Sid does, too; the memory is so powerful that he almost gets lost in it. “That was… that meant a lot to me,” he says, then flushes – _Super fucking awkward, Sid_ , he thinks.

But Shea doesn’t seem to think it’s awkward. He leans in for a kiss, gentler this time. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Thank you for saying that, Sid.”

Sid flushes a darker red, even more confused now. “You asked what I particularly liked, so…” he fumbles.

“And I like your answers,” Shea says reassuringly. He nuzzles Sid’s cheek. “What’s one more thing you really like, Sid? Or something that’s really good for you.”

Sid gives that some thought. The thing he likes most is praise, probably, but he can’t tell Shea that – not straight out. It’s embarrassing, and it makes him sound spoiled, talking like he wants to be praised when he hasn’t done anything to deserve it yet.

Slowly, pausing as he thinks of the right words, Sid says, “You can probably tell that I’m… still pretty new at this. It’s hard to—I worry a lot, that I’m… messing up, or missing something, so I—any reassurance you can offer, during the scene… or criticism,” he hastens to add, “just so I _know_ , you know, how I’m doing—”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Shea says, grabbing Sid’s hand and squeezing it. “I’ll do my best. I know I’m not the most vocal dom, but… honestly, I should have thought of that the last time, and I’m glad you pointed it out to me now.” He leans in for a quick kiss and asks, “Any other limits, besides the ones we talked about last time?”

Sid hesitates. There’s a _lot_ of stuff they haven’t talked about, and included in that pool are things that he knows he wouldn’t be okay with: blood, permanent marks, asphyxiation…

But he’s already said so much, made the scene so much about himself—he doesn’t want to make it worse. He remembers very vividly the teacher in his high school health class telling them, “A submissive should be a blank canvas for their dom to paint on. And no artist likes being told, ‘Oh, you can only paint in red,’ or, ‘Sorry, you can only paint in blue.’”

So he says quickly, “Um, just, if you could not leave bruises on my face – our PR handler would kill me—” He feels a little bit bad about making Jen the bad guy, but this way, it sounds like it’s not _Sid_ who’s telling Shea he can’t do something. And anyway, Jen really would freak out.

“You got it,” Shea says, apparently unbothered, and Sid breathes a sigh of relief.

The rest of the negotiation goes by more quickly. They agree on red, yellow, and green again, and Shea asks if he can fuck Sid, which Sid is totally on board with. “But it’s been a while, so…” he trails off.

Shea nods. “Take it slow. Latex condom okay?”

“Yeah.”

Shea surveys Sid’s bedroom and decides they need a little different furniture situation, so he heads downstairs to get Sid’s ottoman from the living room.

While Sid waits, he strips and kneels at the foot of the bed. He’s shivering lightly, and it’s not all from the cold. Anticipation fizzes in his veins like bubbles in champagne.

When Shea comes back with the ottoman, he sets it in an open area and then tells Sid, “Bring me two ties that you wouldn’t mind ruining, and then kneel on top of this.”

Sid does not give a shit about any of his ties, so he grabs two at random and then sinks to his knees on the ottoman.

“Good boy,” Shea murmurs, and Sid shivers again, this time with pleasure.

The minute Shea loops one of the ties around Sid’s ankle and pulls it snug, Sid’s head sags forward and his shoulders loosen. Sid’s whole attention narrows down to the movement of Shea’s hands behind him and the glorious pressure of Shea’s bonds wrapping around Sid and keeping him still.

When Shea steps back to admire his handiwork, Sid leans forward just enough to test the bondage—his right arm tied to his right ankle and the same on his left side—and lets out a sigh when he feels it resist, holding him securely.

Shea says, “You look so good like this, Sid – really good. You’ve got some gorgeous bruises, too… from hockey?”

“Yes,” Sid says.

Shea hums a little. He starts trailing his fingertips lightly over Sid’s body: his upper back, his upper arms, his thighs, the top of his ass. _Places he could safely hit_ , Sid think, a little uneasy… but that’s not happening yet. Right now it’s just a nice, gentle touch, and it feels good – good enough to leave goosebumps in the wake of Shea’s fingers.

Shea tells him, “I’m going to warm you up by playing with those bruises a little. And then I’m going to give you some new ones.”

“Yes,” Sid says again. He’s not as nervous as he might have been – the bondage helps a lot. It comforts him in much the same way that kneeling does: as a tangible sign that he’s in someone else’s hands now. If this is how Shea tied him, then this is how Shea wants him, and that makes Sid feel warm and secure.

The first time Shea presses on one of Sid’s bruises, Sid thinks, on pure instinct, _Geno_ , and for a moment, he’s in another scene, breathing in the scent of Geno’s cologne and hearing the low rumble of Geno’s accented voice. Then it’s gone, and, disloyal as it is, Sid misses it. But he could never do this with Geno, and Shea is here now, worthy of his trust and his full focus. He won’t get distracted again.

The pain of Shea’s hands on Sid’s bruises is really different from the pain of being hit with Shea’s belt, or that other dom’s fists. It feels intimate in a way that those other pains didn’t, and even though it hurts, the _way_ that Shea is hurting him is gentle and slow – there’s no violence to it, no loud thuds or thwacks, no sudden percussive force.

As Shea moves from rubbing Sid’s bruises with the pads of his fingers to digging in with the ball of his thumb or the heel of his hand, Sid moves with him – downward, into the place where the sharp edges go soft and the constant background voices in Sid’s head go quiet. A small smile floats on Sid’s lips, and his eyes flutter shut and stay closed. All his focus is on Shea’s hands now, and Shea’s occasional wordless noises of approval.

When Sid’s skin feels activated and tender, and muscles loose and warm, Shea murmurs, “I’m going to hit you now, Sid.”

Like this, Sid’s brain is too slow or too calm to get anxious – he just waits for the impact. If it’s bad, he can deal with that when it comes.

He hears the sound of a slap at the same time as he feels the sting on the front of his thigh, and his lips part in a gasp, more in surprise than pain.

“Good,” Shea praises, and he strokes his palm gently over the same spot that he struck. “Color, Sid?”

Sid replies, “Green.” He means it wholeheartedly – there was nothing bad about that, nothing for his body or mind to reject. It hurt some—Shea can pack a lot of power into a slap—but not as much as a punch, and the touch and the praise went a long way toward soothing that hurt.

“Good,” Shea says again, ruffling Sid’s hair affectionately. “Then let’s get going.”

He slaps Sid again—on Sid’s bicep, on his hip, on the top of his ass—each time soothing the sting with a word of praise and a touch, or even a kiss. It feels—

_It feels amazing_ , Sid thinks, wonderingly. _I didn’t know. I didn’t know it could feel—_

And then it gets even better. Shea starts _moving_ Sid to expose new places to hit, and oh, Sid loves that. When Shea folds Sid forward so he can get at more of Sid’s ass, it feels so good to know that he’s exactly where Shea wants him to be, right where Shea has put him—and to know that Shea feels free with Sid’s body that way, free to push and pull him and place him just so. And when Shea pushes him back upright only to pull apart his thighs, with a look of frank sexual appreciation in his eyes…

“Please,” Sid whispers, cheeks flaming, not even sure what he’s asking for. _Please if there’s something you want from me, take it. Please if you want me, take me, take pleasure in my body and my submission—_

Shea steps back and just _stares_ at him, making Sid blush even brighter red. His voice is gravelly when he tells Sid, “You look so fucking good, Sid – with your legs spread and your skin all pink, and that _look_ in your eyes, Sid, like you’d let me do _anything—_ ”

“Please,” Sid says again, almost a sob – he can feel that he’s hard, but more importantly, he can see that _Shea’s_ hard, tenting out his slacks. _He’s_ pleased _with me, he likes it_ , Sid thinks, dazed, hardly daring to believe it. _This gives him pleasure._ I _give him pleasure._

Shea comes close again and cups Sid’s jaw. “What do you want, Sid?” he asks quietly. “You want me to fuck you?”

Oh, _yes_ , Sid thinks, and he says so – maybe too eagerly, but Shea doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m not done with you, yet,” Shea says calmly. “I’ve got more to give you before we get there. But if you’re good, I’ll give you what you want.” He nudges Sid’s thighs even farther apart, until Sid can feel the stretch in his groin, until Sid’s knees are starting to hang over the edge of the ottoman, and then lays a sharp slap on Sid’s inner thigh. Sid whimpers—the pain is more intense there, thanks to all the nerve endings—but Shea rubs the spot gently and whispers, “Good boy, Sid,” and it’s perfect.

Shea lights up Sid’s inner thighs on both sides, enough that the surface sting becomes almost undetectable compared to the deeper soreness from impact layered on impact. Sid can feel tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes, and the desperation he felt when Shea first spread Sid’s legs feels like nothing to how bad he needs it now: needs more, or needs some relief, he’s not sure which. When Shea folds him down again, bending him in half until Sid’s dick is brushing the surface of the ottoman, Sid starts to sob even before Shea buries his fist in Sid’s right asscheek. It’s hard, it’s so hard—the punches Shea starts to pound onto Sid’s ass don’t weave in with Sid’s submission the way that the layers of smaller amounts of pain did, and the violence behind them threatens to push Sid out of the bliss that’s settled over his mind…

But Shea follows every punch with a soft touch, and the praise falling from his mouth is constant now, a stream of “You’re being so good for me, Sid, I’m so proud of you; you’re taking this so well, such a good boy, so beautiful,” and the different sensations interlace until the pleasure from the praise and the touch saturate the pain as well. The pain becomes an extension of the touch, and the pain is what earns the kiss and the praise, and it’s work for Sid to take it, it’s not easy. But it’s okay. It’s okay.

After just a half-dozen punches, Shea stops. Sid sucks in a breath, then another one, fighting past his sobs, waiting for what comes next.

What comes next is Shea’s hand on the back of Sid’s neck, and Shea’s voice saying, very quietly, “You did so good for me, Sid. So good.” His other hand slides down Sid’s spine and in between his cheeks to rub roughly at his hole, making Sid mewl with pleasure. “So good,” Shea repeats.

Sid’s thighs are sore inside and out, and his skin is tingling and hot, but every bit of it feels good. When Shea slicks them both up and slides inside of him—slow and careful, just like he promised—the pleasure Sid feels is doubled, because he knows that he _earned_ it. He earned Shea touching him like this, and taking his pleasure from Sid like this, and that feels incredible. When Shea gives Sid permission to come, it’s not like any orgasm Sid’s ever had before – it feels like it takes place in every part of him, every inch of his skin, every fiber of his stretched, sore muscles. It takes him someplace new: a brighter, ecstatic higher level of the sweet, floaty feeling that his submission bestows on him when a scene is going well. He barely feels Shea untying him or leading him to the bed and examining his bruises. He only really comes back to himself when he’s curled up under Shea’s arm, scrubbed down and then greased up with some ointment that Shea must have brought with him.

“You back with me, Sid?” Shea asks when he sees Sid blinking up at him.

Sid colors. “Yeah, sorry, I—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Shea admonishes. “That’s how it takes a lot of subs, after a really good scene.” He smiles. “I take it as a compliment, all right?”

Sid smiles back tentatively. “Okay.”

Shea wraps his hand around Sid’s wrist and kisses the inside. “You honor me with your submission,” he says softly. “Sid, I want you to know, that was an awesome scene – really fucking hot, really just… meaningful, I don’t know. And I could tell it was a lot for you, by the end, but you stuck with me and trusted me and really worked hard to stay with me, and I want you to know I’m really proud of you.” He kisses the heel of Sid’s hand.

Sid leans in to kiss Shea’s knuckles. “It was my honor to offer it,” he replies. It comes out almost a whisper – Shea’s words had hit him really hard. It’s difficult to think of what to say, especially since his brain is still pretty fuzzy, but Sid tries. “You really helped me a lot by telling me how I was doing,” he says. “I don’t—it was really awesome not to have to… worry, you know? About whether I was doing something dumb or inexperienced. I could just—you took that on yourself, so all I had to worry about was taking what you gave me. So that was really good for me.”

Shea strokes a hand through Sid’s hair and gives him a small grin. “That’s my job, you know? To get you to a place where you can just feel.” He kisses Sid’s forehead. “I’m glad it worked.”

Shea has curfew, so he can’t stick around all night, but he stays long enough to make sure that they both eat something and down some Gatorade.

“You guys play us again pretty soon,” Shea says on his way out the door. “I’m not looking for anything serious right now, but if you’d be up for doing this again…”

“Definitely,” Sid answers, unable to suppress a broad smile. “That sounds awesome.” He practically floats back up to bed, and he’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.

 

*

 

Sid spends the next week in a state of prolonged bliss. _I did it_ , he thinks, every time he catches sight of his bruises. _I finally fucking got it right. I can be a good sub._

The team at first thinks he’s lost his mind – then some genius connects the bruises to the uncanny profusion of smiles, and Sid gets a world of chirping.

“Our little Sid,” Duper says, miming wiping a tear out of the corner of his eye, “all grown up and mooning over a dom—”

“I am not _mooning_ , and it’s not over a _dom_.” Sid rolls his eyes.

Flower sidles up to him and asks, “So are we going to _meet—_ ”

“Oh my god, there’s no one to meet, okay? It was just a hookup,” Sid says firmly. “I am not dating this dom, I am not dating _any_ dom, I do not _want_ —”

Tanger interrupts, “All this time, we thought you were this sweet, demure…”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“…And now it turns out you’re a _player_ ,” Tanger finishes with evident glee. “A heartbreaker, a love ‘em and leave ‘em—”

“There were no broken hearts!” Sid squawks. “It was a hookup, and both of us _knew_ it was a hookup, I am not—”

Geno steps into the middle of the room, holding up his hands. “Everybody leave Sid alone now,” he says, scowling. “If Sid have good scene, you be happy because Sid is happy, not make chirps. Terrible friends,” he mutters before stomping out. Sid takes the opportunity to make his escape behind him.

 

*

 

Every year, Sid holds his breath at the trade deadline, but this year, the team stays pretty much intact. They’re headed for the playoffs, which means additions rather than subtractions; in Pittsburgh’s case, a new defender from the Panthers.

Sid’s not planning to lecture any new players about how to treat subs; it’s easier on them if they can just pick it up from the rest of the team, and if he _does_ have to drop the hammer, it’s useful for the rest of the team to get a teachable moment out of it. He discovers, though, with Leopold, that the rest of the Pens’ leadership group has its own ideas.

The day after Leopold joins the team, Sid steps out of equipment room to hear his own name, coming from around the corner. He stops and tries to decide whether or not to walk away—in the end, his curiosity overcomes his good manners.

He hears Tanger speak first. “So, Sid is a sub.”

It’s a little harder for Sid to identify the second voice, but the very fact that it’s new to him tells him it must be Leopold who replies, dry as a bone, “I’ve heard that, yeah.”

“Right.” That’s Duper’s voice, softer than Tanger’s. “But there’s some stuff you should know, related to that.”

“Okay, shoot.” Leopold sounds a little nervous.

“First, you don’t give him any shit for it,” Tanger says fiercely. “You don’t call him a brat, you don’t expect him to look down when he talks to you: none of that shit. Or you will be killed. Probably by me.”

Evenly, Leopold says, “Not a problem.”

“Good,” says Tanger. “Okay, second thing is, even if you’re not giving him shit, you don’t treat Sid like a sub. Ever. Not even in a nice way. It’s not that I’ll kill you if you do. It’s that Sid will bite your head off. Or worse, he’ll get all miserable and flinchy, in that way that, if someone made your sub look like that, you’d punch them, but Sid doesn’t have a dom to punch people for making him sad, so you’ll just end up wanting to punch _yourself_ in the face. So don’t do it.”

_That’s… pretty vivid. Probably too vivid not to come from personal experience_ , Sid thinks, somewhere between amused and appalled. He can’t argue with the “miserable and flinchy” description, although he hadn’t realized his reaction was that obvious.

“I’m not…” Leopold sounds confused. “I should pretend he’s a dom?”

“No,” Duper says immediately, “it’s not—you can acknowledge that he’s a sub, you just can’t… get possessive over him, or hold his wrist, stuff like that. Or fight people on the ice for him – he will chew you out right there on the bench, it’s not pretty. And you _cannot_ offer to dom him,” Duper adds, sounding dead serious. “Even if you _really_ want to. And you will _really_ want to, because Sid gets wound pretty tight sometimes, and also he’s a sweetheart. It’s a dangerous combination.”

_A sweetheart?_ Sid thinks, turning pink. He’s not sure he likes that – but Duper didn’t say it in a condescending or belittling way. His tone was matter-of fact, like _obviously Sid is a sweetheart and we know this and you will, too, once you get to know him._ He’s still not sure he likes it— _couldn’t Duper have said I was a badass?_ he thinks, crossly—but he supposes that if the team thinks that he’s kind and thoughtful, well… there are worse things.

Leopold says slowly, “I could see that.”

Duper responds, “Right. But Sid does not need a dom – he can handle his shit just fine without one. Okay?”

“Sure. I got it. Is that it?”

“Last thing,” Tanger says. “Sid does not need a dom. But every now and then, he’ll go find one anyway, and he’ll come back looking beat to hell or like he’s gone three rounds with a grizzly bear. That’s just how Sid rolls; he’s pretty hardcore,” Tanger adds in an admiring tone, before his voice goes sharp again. “Don’t be the shithead who takes it personally, talking like Sid should get it from us. It’s none of our business where Sid gets his fun. Got it?”

“Got it, yeah.”

Sid hurriedly takes off in the opposite direction as the conversation breaks up.

As he drives home, Sid tries to decide how to feel about what he just heard. At first, he thought it was a “this is how we treat subs” talk, of the kind that Sid gives when he has to… but it wasn’t that, not really. Tanger and Duper didn’t say anything about how to treat subs in general. This was specifically a “care and feeding of Sidney Crosby” talk, even though much of the advice—can you call it “advice” when it’s followed up by threats of bodily harm?—would apply to subs or switches on the team in general. But maybe Tanger and Duper think giving the “subs in general” speech is Sid’s area of expertise. _Or maybe_ , he thinks cynically, _they just don’t care_. God knows there are plenty of doms who are happy to treat most subs like shit, but if someone looks funny at _their_ sub, or their sibling, or their captain…

Anyway, Sid’s not sure he loves the implication that he’s so weird or difficult that his teammates need to be specifically warned about him… but it’s not like Duper or Tanger said anything that wasn’t true. And the stuff that they’d warned Leopold not to do _is_ stuff that would make Sid miserable. If Leopold takes their warnings to heart, Sid will be a happier person.

It also probably works better coming from other doms than it would from him, especially since some of the stuff they’d talked about is stuff that would never have occurred to him. Are there seriously doms on the Penguins roster who are miffed that he’s been hooking up with doms outside the team? _How does that even make sense?_ he asks himself, baffled. And he had _no_ idea, before, that there was something specific about his personality that was making his teammates want to dom him. Apparently, nice but stressed is especially attractive? _I do not understand doms at all_, he thinks ruefully.

Still, it’s nice to know that some of his lessons have finally sunk in, even if it took years of metaphorically beating his teammates over the head with a stick. _Sid doesn’t need a dom_ , Tanger and Duper had said, and _He can handle his shit just fine without one_. _You can’t offer to dom Sid_ , they’d warned, and also, _It’s none of our business where Sid gets his fun_.

Sid laughs to himself and says, under his breath, “They can be taught!”

There’s another part of the conversation, though, that gives him a little thrill in the center of his chest when he thinks about it. _Sid’s pretty hardcore_ , Tanger had said, and he’d sounded… approving. Maybe even impressed. It had felt really good… but more importantly, it had confirmed that Sid was right about what kind of submission makes a good sub, a sub that doms will respect. And it confirmed that, as far as his teammates are concerned, Sid is living up to that standard – that he’s proved himself.

_All I have to do is not fuck it up_ , he concludes, ignoring a queasy little turn in the pit of his stomach at the thought. _All I have to do is make sure that, if I scene with a dom again, they leave a lot of nasty-looking marks. Easy._

And if Sid doesn’t always like the process of _getting_ those marks—if he still flinches sometimes at the sound of a belt buckle—that doesn’t matter. This is what’s expected of him. And Sid is all about exceeding expectations.

 

*

 

Sid tries not to be too obviously excited when they fly down to Nashville for their second game against the Preds. His teammates are no dummies, and he doesn’t want anyone connecting his good mood this time to his good mood last time and realizing that his mystery hookup is a Preds player. Still, it’s hard to keep a smile off his face. Last time—finally, _finally_ —was good… or maybe, last time _Sid_ was finally good. Either way, his body sings at the thought of having that feeling again.

Shea sent him a text inviting him over after the game and setting up a meeting spot at Bridgestone, so after the game is over and he’s showered and changed, Sid heads over there. Shea smiles wide when he sees Sid and says, “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Sid answers, embarrassed at how breathless he sounds.

He gets a little nervous walking out to player parking with Shea, and walking up to Shea’s apartment from Shea’s garage, but nobody sees them at the arena, and nobody seems to recognize Sid at the apartment building.

In the apartment, Shea gives Sid a glass of water and chugs one himself while they make small talk. When their glasses are empty, Shea settles a hand on the back of Sid’s neck. “Bedroom?” he asks.

“Bedroom,” Sid confirms.

Shea’s bedroom is nearly as tidy as Sid’s—which is saying something—and decorated in a classy grey-blue color scheme. Sid’s eyes catch on the spanking bench in the corner, and he can’t help blushing; Shea notices and grins.

He steers Sid toward the bed, though. When Sid is sitting on the edge, Shea crowds up close, between Sid’s legs, and kisses him, parting Sid’s lips assertively and driving the kiss forward until Sid has to break away to gasp for breath.

He blinks up at Shea, struggling to adjust to the sudden rush of blood away from his brain. “Hey,” he says, stupidly.

“Hey,” Shea replies, grinning. He steps away. “I bought something new, and I want to try it out with you.” He opens a chest at the foot of the bed and pulls out… Sid’s not sure what to call it. The object is long, thin, and rigid, with a thicker handgrip on one end, like an elongated conductor’s baton. It looks like it’s made of plastic, so he’s not sure if it qualifies as a cane, but that’s the closest word he can think of.

He stares at the cane and thinks, _I told you I liked your bare hands_. But he doesn’t let the words come out. Shea looks so excited, and last time had turned out so good, and Sid doesn’t want to be one of those picky subs that only lets a dom paint in blue. “Sounds good,” he lies, summoning up a smile.

“Awesome,” Shea says, leaning in to kiss Sid. He swishes the cane back and forth a few times and Sid swallows, seeing it bend slightly with the force of Shea’s swing. Sid hasn’t watched much porn—after the first three videos he tried all involved screaming or blood, he’d figured it wasn’t for him—but he remembers from health class that whippy, flexible canes like that can be really nasty. You can break skin with one of those.

Feeling stupid before he even opens his mouth, Sid stammers, “I haven’t done anything like this before, though, so—”

Shea’s smile softens, and he reaches out to stroke the backs of his fingers down Sid’s cheek. “I’ll start slow,” he promises, sealing it with a kiss. “Same limits and safewords as last time?”

“Yes,” Sid whispers. His stomach is churning, but he trusts Shea, and he knows he’ll start feeling a lot better once Shea puts him in bondage. That’ll help calm him down a lot.

But Shea doesn’t bind him, or let Sid kneel. He seems to be in kind of a hurry to try his new cane-thing. He tells Sid to strip and lie facedown on the bed. Shea climbs up on the bed after him and straddles his bare thighs. He kisses the back of Sid’s neck, which helps settle Sid a little, and then starts tracing the pointed tip of the cane all over Sid’s upper back, drawing loops and curves. It makes Sid shiver, but not in a bad way. It feels nice.

After a few minutes, Shea leans down and murmurs in Sid’s ear, “You good?”

Sid swallows again. “Yeah,” he manages.

When Shea brings the cane down across Sid’s back, it feels like Sid had always imagined being sliced open by a skate blade would feel. It scares him, and for a few seconds, he’s sure he’s bleeding. He waits for the reassuring touch, the praise that will follow the stroke…

But instead, Shea hits him a second time, crossing the path of the first. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t touch Sid in between, like he had last time. All he does is pause, as if giving the pain a few seconds to really sink in is somehow going to make this better for Sid. But it’s worse.

Shea lays down another stroke, then another, still silent, still not touching Sid or kissing him or really doing _anything_ to acknowledge that there’s a human being underneath him. It gives Sid’s mind nowhere to go except the pain, which is nauseatingly bad and only getting worse as the lines overlap more and more. It’s like the first time, with the belt: Sid’s mind doesn’t just dislike the pain, it _rejects_ it. Every stroke eats up his mental energy as his mind desperately tries to find ways to justify the pain or distance him from it, or just to endure it.

_It’s fine_ , he tells himself. _I’ll be fine._ It’s what Shea wants, which would be enough for Sid to like it, if he were a good sub. And it’s sure as hell going to leave impressive marks, and he needs that in order to live up to his teammates’ expectations, so… it’s fine. It is.

It’s not what Sid told Shea he liked—what Shea saw that he liked, last time—but that doesn’t matter. Subbing is about what the _dom_ likes. He had thought Shea liked it, too, last time; he’d said it was good, that _Sid_ was good. But maybe he didn’t like it that much. Maybe he’d just been humoring Sid since he knows that Sid is new at this. Maybe Sid had just been wasting Shea’s time.

Sid can’t help wondering if that’s why Shea isn’t using his hands this time or praising Sid – if he’s trying to teach Sid a lesson about who’s in charge here, or about being too demanding. That would be fine; he could use the reminder, probably. He just wishes he _knew_. He wishes Shea had told him what he’d done wrong, instead of playing along and expecting him to figure it out himself. If Sid were a better sub, probably he’d have picked up on it, but he didn’t, and now Shea is hurting him and he doesn’t even know if Shea _likes_ it, if Shea even wants to be here or if he wishes Sid had just left him alone instead of bothering him. Sid is probably fucking something up right now without even knowing it – he should be trying to like it more, instead of fixating on his own shit. He should… moan, or squirm—or, no, that might seem like he _didn’t_ like it…

There’s a new pain, sharp and sudden, in a new place, and it drags Sid back into his body, unwilling.

Shea’s hand is in Sid’s hair, yanking his head back—that’s the new pain—and Shea is saying, “ _Color_ , Sid,” in a frustrated tone of voice, like he’s been asking for a while.

Sid really wishes he wouldn’t do that. It’s worse, to know that he could stop the pain if he didn’t care what Shea thought of him. What the team thought of him. Tanger’s voice, telling Leopold, _Sid’s pretty hardcore_ , echoes through his head. He has to live up to that: that’s what people expect. That’s what people respect. So really, he doesn’t have a choice, and he wishes Shea wouldn’t act like he does. Half a beating isn’t very hardcore.

So Sid says, robotically, “Green.” His voice sounds tired and tight. If only Shea would just start hitting him again… Every stroke gets him closer to the good part, when Shea will hold him and praise him. If he punks out now, he won’t get that part – he’ll only get the pain, and none of the compensation. That would—Sid can’t imagine how horrible that would be.

“Are you sure?” Shea asks, which is not what Sid wants to hear. “You’re not making _any_ noise, Sid—”

_Fuck, fuck_ , Sid thinks. He’s already exhausted with the effort of trying to be what Shea wants, and now it turns out he has to do _more_.

“Sorry,” he says dully, too drained even to feel humiliated at disappointing Shea. “I’ll do better. I’ll be better.”

“Sid…” There’s something in Shea’s voice that Sid can’t read. “Sid, is this even doing anything for you?” he demands.

Before Sid can pull together his “yes”—not even a lie, it is doing _something_ for him—Shea’s hands are on his shoulders, flipping him over onto his throbbing back. His eyes shoot to Sid’s groin, which Sid doesn’t understand at first. Then he remembers: _Oh. This is supposed to turn me on. I’m supposed to be hard._ But he isn’t.

Shea stares down at Sid, looking stricken; Sid looks back, empty, waiting to see what Shea will do.

Finally, Shea says, “Red,” and climbs off of Sid, off of the bed, while Sid stares at him in shock, trying to process what he heard.

“What?”

Sid _must_ have misheard. He must have.

“Red,” Shea repeats. “I’m using my safeword. This scene is over.”

When Shea’s words sink in, Sid feels like he’s going to throw up.

_No_ , he thinks, numbly, _no_. He can’t have fucked up this badly. He can’t have been such a bad, broken sub that he made a _dom_ safeword out of a scene. He can’t.

But he did.

A sob comes tearing out of his throat. His back hurts so, so badly, but the physical pain is _nothing_ compared to this feeling of abject failure. He feels hollowed out, scooped clean of anything good or happy. God, he’d thought he was too drained to feel humiliated – little did he fucking know.

As if from a long way away, he hears Shea saying, “Sid,” and that spurs him into action.

Sid rockets up off of the bed and starts rooting around for his clothes.

_I’m never doing this again_ , he thinks, his stomach twisting, his chest shaking with sobs. _I’m never letting another dom touch me again. I’ll only disappoint them. I’ll only fuck things up, like I always do_.

“Sid, you need—”

“I need to go,” Sid whispers, cutting Shea off. He’s got his slacks and his undershirt, and he shoves them on as fast as possible, forgetting about his boxers, not bothering with his button-down shirt. Fuck, where is his jacket?

Shea steps in front of the bedroom doorway, looking stern. “Sid, I am not letting you leave like this – you’re obviously a mess, you need—”

“You can’t stop me,” Sid says, blankly. He’s not crying anymore, even though his throat is so tight that it feels like he’s being strangled. His hands are clenched in his undershirt, probably pulling it out of shape. The cotton fabric is rubbing his sore back raw, but he doesn’t care about that, doesn’t care about anything other than getting _away_. From here, from Shea… from himself, if he could, but he can’t. “You can’t keep me here.”

He has nothing backing his words up—what is he going to do, fight Shea?—but Shea reluctantly steps out of the doorway, and Sid stumbles past him.

“Please, Sid, you have to stay,” Shea attempts, trailing Sid down the hallway.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Sid replies, on autopilot. Doms are always telling him he has to do things, and the filter that usually stops him from responding the way he really wants to—honestly—is gone. “I don’t have to do what you say. You rejected my submission, so I don’t have to submit.” He hadn’t realized that before – this queasily liberating silver lining to being a bad sub. If he’s bad, if no one wants his submission, then he doesn’t have to submit. If it’s too late for him to be a good sub, then he can do what he fucking wants, and the most powerful weapon doms have against him is used up, out of ammo. Let them call him bad, bratty, spoiled. It’s only the truth.

As Sid shoves his feet into his shoes, Shea tries again, “Sid, you are not in good shape—”

“You think I can’t take this?” Sid snaps. He doesn’t know why Shea is acting like this. Is he seriously trying to give Sid aftercare? After Sid screwed up so badly that Shea felt like he had to use his fucking safeword just to get rid of him? Maybe Shea’s changed his mind, but no fucking way is Sid sticking around for some kind of half-hearted pity-aftercare from someone who Sid can’t even _look_ at right now without wanting to vomit.

“Sid, fuck—” Sid keeps his eyes on the floor, but he can hear that Shea’s voice is a wreck. “Sid, it’s not about what you can _take_ – that’s the whole reason I—”

“I’m going,” Sid says, and then he’s out the door. He’s not sticking around to hear Shea explain in excruciating detail exactly _how_ Sid had failed him, disappointed him, disgusted him. No fucking way.

In a stroke of undeserved luck, he’s able to flag down a cab outside of Shea’s apartment building pretty much right away, so he doesn’t have to know whether or not Shea would have tried to chase him outside.

In the cab, he tries to compose himself, breathing in and out slowly, and trying to ignore the pain in his back. If his luck continues, he’ll be able to get back to his room without running into anybody he knows. And if he does run into somebody, he’ll just say he’s sick or something. It’s not that far off.

Of course, the minute he walks into the hotel, he spots a group of Pens, and they spot him right back.

“Hey, Sid,” Duper calls. “Come hit the hotel bar with us – we’re going to celebrate Kuni’s Gordie Howe!”

“No, thanks,” says Sid, trying for something approximating his normal smile. “I’m kind of tired, I’m going to turn in.”

“Oh, come on,” Tanger cajoles. He moves in fast enough that Sid doesn’t have time to brace himself, and so when Tanger slings an arm around Sid’s back, Sid flinches, enough that everyone can see it.

Tanger draws back. “Sid, what the hell—”

“I’m fine, it’s nothing—”

Tanger yanks up the back of Sid’s shirt, exposing the welts to every dom there. Sid’s never felt so humiliated.

“Tanger, don’t—” He tries to step away, get back some of his dignity, but Tanger grabs his wrist, and that is _it_. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he grits out, and wrenches his wrist away.

Geno steps closer, protectively. “Tanger, don’t touch. Sid, what happen?” he asks, eyes pleading, and that is the last fucking thing this shitty night needs: Geno, so close and so caring, and Sid having to know that Geno would take such good care of him if he only asked.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Geno asks, “Dom do that?” He nods at Sid’s back.

“I didn’t do it to myself,” Sid snaps. “Just let me go up—”

“Dom give aftercare?” Geno’s tone makes it clear he already knows the answer.

“No. So, you know, my shitty taste in doms strikes again,” Sid says, with a jerky, angry shrug. “Or those are the only doms a sub like me can get. And now everybody knows,” he says to Tanger and Duper, Kuni and Talbo. “Happy now?”

“Sid, I can take care,” Geno says softly. His eyes are so kind that Sid can’t keep snapping at him.

“I—that’s okay, Geno. I’m okay. I’m just going to—” Sid doesn’t want to go up to his empty room, to lie awake all night and think about all the things he did wrong. “—to the gym. Work it off.” As soon as he says it out loud, he likes the idea even better. “Yes,” he says decisively, and turns toward the elevator to get his workout clothes.

“ _No_ ,” Geno says, sounding upset. “Sid, push your body more is opposite of good for you tonight – need rest, need care—”

“You know what’s best for me, huh?” Sid’s anger is back as quickly as it left. “You think I don’t know how to take care of my own body?”

Carefully, Geno says, “Not think right tonight, Sid—”

Sid spits, “I’m not _crazy_ , Geno—”

“I’m not say crazy, I know you not crazy—”

“So I can do what I want. And what I want is to go to the gym.” And run and run until his legs give out.

“Sid, _no_.” Geno steps between Sid and the elevator. “You try to push yourself like this, I—”

“You’ll what?” Sid asks flatly, breathing hard. “Put me on my knees?”

Everything is quiet for a minute. Sid can feel Duper’s and Tanger’s eyes on him, _everyone’s_ eyes on him. But he’s not looking at anyone but Geno.

“Never, Sid.” Geno’s voice is quiet but strong, and Sid has to look away from the sincerity on his face.

“Sid,” Geno says gently, “need aftercare. For back, even if not for head.”

“No.” Sid shakes his head.

“Why no?” Geno asks, patient as a rock.

“Because…” Sid wants to tell Geno the truth. He thinks Geno might understand. “Because I don’t deserve it,” he says, too quietly for the others to hear. “I really fucked up tonight, Geno.”

His breathing sounds strangely loud in his own ears. He can’t bring himself to look up to see the expression on Geno’s face.

“Don’t deserve water?” Geno sounds neutral, careful. “Don’t deserve lotion for back, so you can skate tomorrow?”

“I… that makes sense,” Sid admits.

“Of course,” Geno says. “I’m always make sense.” When Sid chances a look up at Geno’s face, he’s smiling, and Sid pulls together a little smile in return. Geno asks, “You let me take you up to Flower for take care?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” The other doms, thank god, don’t say anything as Sid walks away with Geno. Probably as soon as Sid gets his head screwed on right, he’s going to be incredibly embarrassed about having thrown a fit in front of half the team, but right now he has enough to feel like shit about.

In the elevator, Geno’s hand hovers over Sid’s shoulder until Sid says, “It’s fine. You can touch me.” Geno is careful to let his arm rest only on the tops of Sid’s shoulders, putting no pressure on the welts on his back.

_He smells good_ , Sid thinks helplessly, and the weight of Geno’s arm across Sid’s shoulders makes it so, so much easier to breathe.

When they get out of the elevator, Sid weighs what he wants against what he deserves and asks, “Can you take me to your room, instead of Flower’s?”

Geno’s steps fall out of rhythm for a few seconds, and then he stops in the middle of the hallway, his arm still around Sid’s shoulders. Softly, he asks, “You want I take care?” He’s not pushing or drawing back, Sid can tell – he just wants to be sure.

“Yes,” Sid replies. Wanting – that’s easy.

“Oh,” Geno breathes. He starts down the hall again, gently pulling Sid along with him. “I’m take most good care,” he promises, almost under his breath.

“I know you will.” Better than Sid deserves.

Geno ushers Sid into his room and guides him over to sit on the bed. He brings Sid a bottle of water after cracking the cap, but he hands it to Sid rather than trying to put it to his lips, and Sid’s eyes burn at the thoughtfulness. He can’t believe Geno remembered.

While Sid drinks, Geno putters around the room wetting some washcloths, getting a pair of soft-looking sweatpants and a tub of balm. As soon as Sid starts looking around for a place to set the bottle, Geno takes it from him and holds out the sweatpants.

“I’m take care of your back – should change in these, be more comfortable.”

“Sure.” When Sid takes the sweatpants, Geno carefully turns his back and starts messing with—or more likely, pretending to mess with—something in his bag. Sid strips off his shirt, wincing as the fabric scratches over the welts, and then his slacks, before pulling Geno’s sweatpants on. They feel as soft as they look, and they’re much too long in the leg.

“I’m ready,” Sid says.

Geno turns around. When he sees Sid, he smiles a little and motions at the bed. “On front, for back.”

Sid lies down on his front, pillowing his head on his crossed arms. He can feel Geno’s weight settling on the bed next to him, and hear Geno unscrewing the lid on the balm. Geno sets one hand, warm and steady, on the back of Sid’s shoulder, and then starts wiping down the welts with a wet washcloth in his other hand. Sid tries to hold in a whimper, but then thinks, _Why?_

When Geno hears Sid, he pauses and asks anxiously, “Hurt too much, Sid?”

“No,” Sid replies. “It’s… it’s gonna hurt no matter what. You’re doing—you’re being really gentle.” For some reason, those last few words make a lump in Sid’s throat.

“I try,” Geno says quietly. His hand starts moving again, carefully stroking the washcloth over Sid’s back. When he’s done with that, he pats the welts dry and then applies the balm, which feels cool and light and smells like rosemary.

Geno whispers, “You asleep, Sid?”

“No.” Sid can’t blame Geno for thinking that, though. His breathing has evened out and slowed, and his eyelids drifted closed a while ago. He’s just been rocking in the waves, lulled by the rhythm of Geno’s hands.

“Good.” Sid feels Geno rest a hand on his hair briefly. “Because need more water, and probably food.”

“Water ‘s good,” Sid agrees, slurred, “but ‘m not hungry.”

“Hmm.”

Geno helps Sid sit up and plies him with another bottle of water, and then an energy bar, which Sid devours despite not experiencing any of the physical sensations he associates with hunger. _Wow,_ he thinks distantly, _my body is super messed up right now_. His head is clearly not in a great place, either, or he’d be more upset by that.

Of course, as soon as he’s had that thought, he promptly bursts into tears.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps between sobs as Geno gathers Sid into his arms. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

“Sshhh, sshh, very normal, Sid,” Geno murmurs, lying back against the pillows and tugging Sid down to join him, Sid’s head pillowed on Geno’s chest. “Scene is big change for body and head, can mess with both – especially when scene is interrupt, or is bad scene, or don’t have aftercare right away.”

_Well, I guess I got the hat trick there_ , Sid thinks. He cries even harder.

“You okay, Sid,” Geno says, low, stroking his hand through Sid’s hair. “You gonna be okay. Is hard now, I know is hard, but better soon. But now you just cry – is good. Cry is good for you. Help clean out head, you know?”

Sid couldn’t explain why, but it helps, knowing that he has Geno’s permission to cry – knowing that Geno thinks this is normal, even good, instead of a sign that he’s losing his fucking mind. He cries himself out on Geno’s chest, leaving a big wet spot on poor Geno’s t-shirt, and leaving a mountain of used Kleenexes on the bedside table. When the sobs peter out and the tears dry up, Sid _does_ feel better. He still feels like a wreck, of course, but he feels lighter, too. Cleaned out, just like Geno said.

Geno mops up a few last tears with the corner of the sheet. “Not so bad to cry, see?”

“No,” Sid agrees. He sighs, feeling himself relaxing even more into the line of Geno’s body, so warm against his.

“Yes, good,” Geno says softly. “Good to relax. Good to let somebody take care. You should have always, Sid.”

_That would be nice_ , Sid thinks wistfully. To be able to have this whenever he needs it, maybe even without the bad parts first. To hold and to be held.

Geno whispers, “You say before you don’t deserve, but I don’t believe. I’m never believe. You always so good, Sid – I know you so many years, and always you good, always you work hard, always you so strong, love family so much, team so much…”

Sid’s eyes are stinging again, and he buries his face in Geno’s shirt.

“Always so good. My good Sid,” Geno murmurs, and it goes right through Sid, a pain so sweet he wants it again and again.

Sid can’t help the way it hits him – the way he flinches from it, or the sound he makes.

Geno freezes, and Sid can’t—he can’t take this. He could take the worst that Geno could dish out if Geno wanted to hurt him, but he can’t take the kind, sweet way that Geno will tell him that he didn’t really mean it, that he didn’t want to lead Sid on.

“I have to go,” Sid says, pushing away from Geno and stumbling to his feet.

“No—Sid, stay…” Geno says, reaching out, distress written all over his face.

Sid dodges Geno’s hands. “I… I can’t. I’m—thank you, I feel great—”

“Sid, please, don’t—”

“I just… have to go. I’m sorry,” Sid gets out, before fleeing the room. His shirt is still in Geno’s room, and… so are his pants, Sid realizes—these sweatpants are Geno’s. That means his cell phone is in there, too, _fuck_.

Flower is usually next door to Sid, so Sid takes his chances knocking on the door next to his own. He’s relieved when the door opens and Flower appears, his cranky expression transforming into shock when he sees Sid.

“Sid, what the—”

Sid asks, “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Of course you can stay here, you don’t even have to ask,” Flower says, waving him in. “What happened? Tanger said you came up with Geno for aftercare, and when you never showed, I assumed he was taking care of you.”

“He was,” Sid says, past the lump in his throat.

“What happened?” Flower asks, leading him over to sit on the bed.

“He gave me water, and put balm on my back. Then we were—” Sid breaks off, embarrassed.

“Cuddling,” Flower supplies.

“Cuddling,” Sid admits. “And he was talking – just nonsense stuff, you know—”

Flower rubs Sid’s arm. “Yeah, I know.”

“And he called me… he called me his good Sid,” Sid says, painfully. “And I couldn’t—”

“Oh, Sid,” Flower murmurs, pulling Sid close until his head is lying on Flower’s knee, and Flower’s hand is stroking through his hair.

Sid scrunches his eyes shut. “I know it’s stupid…”

“It’s not stupid.” Flower keeps running his fingers through Sid’s hair. Gently, he says, “You really like him, huh.”

“Yeah.” That doesn’t really express how fucked Sid is, though. He swallows, and tells the truth. “I think I love him, Flower.”

“Well… good.”

“Good?” Sid asks, his voice cracking.

“Yes,” Flower says firmly, “good. Because he loves you too.”

“He doesn’t,” Sid says, automatic.

“You so sure about that?”

Sid thinks about Geno’s hands, so gentle on Sid’s welts and bruises. He remembers Geno telling him that he was the best sub, deserved the best dom – someone who would be proud of him, and never ask him to be less than what he is.

“Oh,” Sid says, softly.

He still doesn’t quite believe it. But it’s not—not crazy. He thinks.

“Did you tell Geno why you were leaving?” Flower asks.

“No, of course not.”

“So all he knows is that he called you his, probably by accident, and you ran out screaming?”

“I wasn’t _screaming_ ,” Sid mutters, but he takes Flower’s point – Geno probably thinks he screwed up, did something wrong, _hurt_ Sid, maybe. “Shit.”

“You shouldn’t go back over there tonight,” says Flower. “You’re a mess. But you have to talk to him.”

“Yeah.” Sid can’t argue with that. He has to talk to Geno. The problem is knowing what to say. “Flower, I can’t tell him that—that I love him—”

“Why not? I told you, he feels—”

“It doesn’t _matter_ how he feels,” Sid says desperately, “or how I feel, or any of it. I can’t have a dom, Flower. If I tell him I—I want him, then he’ll… if you’re right, he’ll want me to—to wear his collar. And I can’t,” he finishes, with the quiet of defeat. “I can’t, Flower.”

Flower is silent for a while, leaving Sid to stew in his own thoughts. He mostly spends the time flipping between the image of himself kneeling for Geno in his bedroom, and the warmth in his stomach that accompanies that image, and the image of himself kneeling at Geno’s feet in the locker room, and how much he wants to vomit when he thinks of it.

Finally, Flower says, “You know I’ve never been one of those people who’s tried to push you to be somebody’s sub. You don’t need a dom. That’s been true the whole time I’ve known you, and it’s true now. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

“Thank you,” Sid says, his voice shaking a little.

“All I want to say is… look. When I was like you—when I’d never been somebody’s sub—I had all these ideas about what that had to be,” Flower says, voice calm, his hand still stroking slowly through Sid’s hair, “and some of them I liked, but some of them I didn’t, and I thought I’d have to take it all. That every relationship between a dom and a sub had to be just like the ones on TV, you know? And now that Vero and I have been together for—wow, a long time…” Sid can hear the smile in Flower’s voice. “Now I know it’s not like that. My submission is between me and Vero and nobody else. And some of it is like I expected, and a lot of it isn’t. Because you get to… make it up. The two of you. You make it up as you go. You keep the stuff that works and you ditch the stuff that doesn’t. I’m her sub and she’s my dom, but _we_ get to decide what that means.”

Flower drops a kiss onto the top of Sid’s head, like Sid is a child, then straightens up. “That’s all I wanted to say. Come on, let’s get under the covers and get some sleep.”

 

*

 

When Sid gets the hotel staff to let him into his room in the morning, his clothes are folded on the bed. On top of the pile of clothes is his cell phone, and a Reese’s peanut butter cup in its bright orange wrapper.

Once he’s changed, he heads back to Flower’s room, where he finds Flower frowning at his own cell phone. “Sid? Why is Shea Weber texting me to ask you to answer your phone?” He gives Sid a look that says he already knows the answer.

“Shit.” Sid pulls out his phone and winces: ten missed calls from Shea, starting last night and picking up again this morning. He asks Flower, “Can you give me some privacy for a second?” and calls back.

Shea answers right away. “Sid? Sid, are you okay?”

Sid takes a deep breath. “I’m okay,” he says. “Somebody on the team took care of me when I got back last night.”

“Thank god. Sid, I’m really sorry for how things went down last night—”

“ _You’re_ sorry—” Sid starts, surprised.

“You told me last time what worked for you, I _saw_ how it worked for you, and then I fucked off and did this totally different thing without really negotiating at all—”

“Because I told you it was okay,” Sid interrupts. He sees the sense in what Shea’s saying, but Sid’s not willing to hold himself blameless in this. “And that was wrong. _I’m_ sorry, Shea – I wasn’t honest with you. And that’s on me.”

For a few seconds, there’s just silence on the other end of the line. Then Shea asks, urgently, “ _Why_ , Sid? Why say it was okay if—”

“I wanted you to want me,” Sid says, painfully. He feels too raw to dress it up. This is the truth as best as he knows it. “And doms don’t like subs who tell them no.”

“Sid.” Shea’s voice over the phone sounds raspy and wet. “Sid, you listen to me right now. You can _always_ say no. Always. And any dom who doesn’t want you because of it is a piece of shit who you’re better off avoiding anyway—”

“What if I said I didn’t want you to hurt me at all?” Sid interrupts. “What if you couldn’t do that? Would you still have wanted me?”

The silence on the other end lasts long enough to be its own answer. Shea finally says, “Sid…” But he doesn’t seem to know where to go from there.

“Yeah,” Sid says dully. “Listen, I’m okay now, Shea. And I’m sorry for lying to you about what I wanted – that was shitty.”

Flower pokes his head in from the hallway and points at his watch.

Sid nods and says, “I’ve got to go – we’re getting on the bus—”

“You’re enough,” Shea says, so intensely that Sid’s breath catches. “You don’t have to lie – your submission, your _real_ submission, is enough. It’s so sad and fucked-up that somebody made you believe that’s not true, but it is. _You’re enough_.”

Sid stands rooted to the spot. His eyes start to sting, without his permission. _You’re enough_. He knows he has to go, he knows he can’t cry, but the words just keep echoing in his head. _You’re enough_.

Flower hisses, “Sid!”

Sid clears his throat and says, very quiet, “Thank you, Shea. I have to go.” He hangs up.

He lets Flower herd him out to the bus, his head spinning.

Shea’s words sliced right through to the core of Sid’s shame and insecurity. He hadn’t sounded like he was just being nice or trying to make it up to Sid after a bad scene. He’d sounded like he really meant it.

Sid thinks, staring out the bus window, _What would it mean to believe him?_

But maybe the better question is: _What would it cost_ not _to believe him? What_ has _it cost, all these years?_

Sid is a smart guy. He thinks stuff through. It’s never escaped his notice that his whole public career has been built around the idea that there’s no one right way to be a sub. And he’s understood on some level that the position he takes on his public life does not mesh with how he thinks about his private life – with the shame that he’s carried for years at the mismatch between his own desires and what a dom would want from a sub they claimed as their own. But for some reason, this moment, right now, is bringing that inconsistency—that hypocrisy—to the breaking point.

_For some reason_.

Sid laughs without amusement. As if Sid doesn’t know perfectly well why this is the moment – why a conflict that seemed painful but academic before now seems so sharp and urgent. His eyes sweep across the bus without his permission, searching for—

_Geno_.

Sid looks away quickly. Yeah, that’s the reason right there. Because if there’s only one right way to be a sub in private, and Sid can’t be that, then he has no business trying to start anything with Geno. He’ll only get both their hopes up for nothing. So Sid has to know. He has to decide.

There’s so many voices telling him it’s useless, so many voices telling him that there’s only one kind of sub that can be good, one kind of sub that doms will want. _No dom wants to be told they can only paint in red_ , his teacher said. _Of course the kissing and the praise would not be enough_ , Vero said. Even Shea had admitted he wouldn’t want a sub who didn’t like pain.

But Sid has been ignoring voices like that for his whole adult life, when it comes to hockey. He’s the world fucking expert on that. Does he really think that hockey is more worth fighting for than l—than whatever he might have with Geno?

And there are other voices, too, that say the opposite. _You’re enough_ , Shea said. _You keep the stuff that works and ditch the stuff that doesn’t_ , Flower said. _Communicate is not complain_ , Ovechkin had told him. And Geno—whose opinion here counts for more than all the others—had seen the aftermath of Sid’s shitty judgment when it comes to doms and still said, _You’re best person, best sub. Should have best dom_.

_If it’s okay to be a different kind of sub in the public sphere, but once the bedroom door is closed, everyone has to go back into their little boxes_ , Sid thinks, _then it will always be bullshit_. The realization feels huge, almost frightening… but not actually surprising. It’s as if it’s been waiting for Sid all this time – waiting for him to want someone enough to take the chance.

None of that will make it hurt any less if Geno changes his mind about Sid once he sees the shape of Sid’s real submission. But it gives Sid the courage to try. Geno likes him—maybe even wants him—even though his public life breaks the rules for what a sub is supposed to be. Maybe Geno won’t mind if he breaks just a few more. Just maybe.

Maybe.

 

*

 

Sid’s courage lasts him all the way home, lasts while he changes clothes and gets back in the car, heading for Geno’s house…

But as he parks in Geno’s driveway, the enormity of what he’s about to do seizes him, stealing his breath and kicking his pulse into a rabbit’s pace.

In a panic, he dials Flower.

While the phone rings, Sid whispers, “I’m enough. I’m enough,” and it helps a little, but he’s still incredibly relieved when Flower answers.

Before Flower can even finish saying hello, Sid blurts out, “Flower… if Geno does love me, then—if there’s something wrong with me, he wouldn’t… do you think he would still want me?”

Flower immediately says, “There is nothing wrong with you, Sid—”

“That’s not actually what I wanted you to say,” Sid gets out, with difficulty. He wraps his arm around his middle, hugging himself as he waits for Flower’s answer.

It’s quiet on the other end for a few seconds.

Then Flower says softly, “Yes, Sid.” His voice is very gentle. “If there is something that you think is wrong with you, or that other people have told you is wrong with you, I think Geno will not care about that. And if, by some unlikely chance, there is some problem, then you two will work on it together. Okay?”

“Okay.” Sid takes a deep breath; lets it out again; thinks, _I’m enough_. He can feel the flash of panic receding. “Thank you, Flower.”

“It is just the truth.”

Sid ends the call and stuffs his phone in his pocket. He takes another deep breath, opens the car door, and walks up to Geno’s porch.

Almost as soon as he rings the doorbell, Geno opens the door – he must have seen Sid drive up.

He ushers Sid inside and then starts, anxiously, “Sid, I’m happy you come. I need to apologize…”

“You don’t have to apologize—”

“I know you want professional,” Geno continues, leading Sid down the hallway toward the living room, “and I’m not keep things professional, and I’m sorry—”

“G, you really don’t have to… you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Nice to say, Sid, but is not true,” Geno says, shaking his head. “I’m make you uncomfortable – you trust me for take care of you, and I’m not—”

“Geno, _please_ ,” Sid says desperately. He can’t listen to this anymore.

Geno quiets, watching Sid with an anxious line between his brows.

That’s—that helps. But now Sid has to try to figure out how to say what he came here to say, and he’s not even sure what it _is_ that he came here to say, really. He’s in love with Geno – he can’t lie to himself about that, not anymore. And love is great, or it’s supposed to be, but… Sid wouldn’t really know. Not for himself. But he looks up and sees the worry in Geno’s eyes, and he knows that Geno is worried about _Sid_ – not about whether Sid is mad at him or about whether their professional relationship is damaged, but about whether Sid is hurting.

Sid thinks about trying to put into words what that means to him, and he knows he can’t. His mind doesn’t know what to do with that warm concern, that protectiveness, but his body does, and before he can think about it, his knees bend.

Sid sinks to the floor at Geno’s feet and bows his head. That’s—that’s what this is really about, anyway: whether he can find a home here, on his knees for Geno. He can’t say it any clearer than this.

“Sid…” Geno’s voice is low with uncertainty. “Don’t know what… you want more—more aftercare? Or you want… want to ask for scene? Don’t understand, Sid—”

“I want to be yours.” Sid’s voice breaks on the last word.

Geno sounds hesitant when he repeats, “Want… mine?”

Sid can’t bring himself to look up and see the expression on Geno’s face. Instead, he takes a quick breath in and keeps talking. “It’s… obviously it’s okay if you don’t—don’t want that. I understand, I just… Flower said you did. And I thought… I thought there was a chance. Because of the way you—you look at me. Sometimes. But if you don’t—”

“Sid. _Sid_.” Sid looks up, and he can’t absorb all the emotion carved into the lines of Geno’s face – there’s too much there to interpret. “Of course I want, Sid,” Geno says, voice shaking. “Sid, I’m… I want _most_.” He’s reaching for Sid before he’s even finished talking, and his hands bury themselves in Sid’s hair at the same time his knees hit the ground – then he’s devouring Sid’s mouth, kissing Sid with what feels like years of pent-up yearning.

It’s so much to feel, so much… Sid tried so hard not to imagine this, and now he’s glad, because it wouldn’t have held a candle to the real thing. Geno is holding him so securely, one big hand cupping the back of his head, one gently folded around the point of his jaw, and Sid feels utterly, utterly safe in his hands.

Sid doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, but he doesn’t really have a thought to spare for that. Every part of him is focused on the places where Geno’s body is touching his.

Eventually, Geno breaks the kiss and sits back on his heels. He coughs lightly, like he’s a little embarrassed at the force of his own reaction, then gives Sid a shy smile.

“You say you want to be mine,” Geno says, slowing down over the last five words like he just wanted to hear them again. “You mean you want my collar?” He brushes his fingertips over Sid’s throat, eyes warm and hopeful.

Sid feels like someone just poured ice water down his back. His shoulders are suddenly knotted with tension, and his mouth feels cottony.

“I…”

Of course Geno would want that. _Any_ dom would want that, and any sub would, too. _Sid_ should want that, and—

“Shh, shh.” Geno keeps his right hand firm around the back of Sid’s neck, like an anchor, but his other hand is rubbing up and down Sid’s other arm like he thinks Sid is cold. “Is okay, Sid. Is you don’t want? Or you want, but think you can’t have?”

He’s not going to lie to Geno. “I don’t want to,” he chokes out, expecting Geno to draw back, but Geno just nods, unfazed.

“Is you don’t want serious relationship? Or just don’t want thing on neck?”

“Of course I want a serious relationship—”

“Good.” Geno cracks a slightly bashful smile. “If you just want… how you say here, fuckbuddies? Then I can’t do. Feel too much. But you just don’t want thing on neck—Sid, I don’t care.”

Sid stares. Of all the reactions he was expecting, “I don’t care” didn’t even make the list.

Geno looks a little bit like he wants to roll his eyes, but his smile is gentle. “I know I’m not grow up in big, fancy town like Cole Harbour,” he says, teasing. “But you not first sub I meet who don’t want collar. Is not big deal, Sid. Is different, yes? But I don’t mind different.”

“You’ll get shit for it, if people find out we’re together,” Sid warns, then adds, “uh… also, people can’t find out we’re together.”

“I know this.” Geno shrugs. “You more important. Some things complicated. Not this.” He leans in to kiss Sid again.

Sid tries to give his full attention to the kiss, but part of his brain is still reeling at Geno’s easy acceptance of two things that Sid had always believed would drive any dom away. His defenses had been raised, ready for Geno to take it all back, to push him away, and then—

_You more important_ , Geno had said simply, as if it was that easy.

“You’re amazing,” Sid mumbles into the kiss, “just so you know.”

He can feel the huff of Geno’s laughter against his lips.

When they’re both panting and the kiss has gone slow and ragged, Geno pulls back. His gaze comes to rest on his own right hand on Sid’s shoulder, and he draws in a breath through parted lips. Gently, a little nervously, he traces his fingertips down Sid’s arm – first, slow, over the curve of Sid’s bicep, then gently brushing over the sensitive inside of Sid’s elbow. Sid shivers. As Geno trails his fingers down the smooth inner surface of Sid’s forearm, Sid can feel some kind of tension building inside him – some wild, animal thing that shakes and shakes within him until he thinks he’ll burst at the seams—

And Geno closes his hand around Sid’s wrist, firm but gentle, steady and strong.

The sound that comes out of Sid’s throat is something like a sob. He can barely feel the rest of his body, or remember what he was so afraid of – his whole focus has narrowed down to the press of Geno’s strong, callused fingers around his wrist and the sense of relief and refuge it gives him. The wild, shaking, struggling thing that had battered him is gone, or—transformed. Soothed and kept safe.

“Oh, _Sid_ ,” Geno says, sounding… overcome. When Sid can finally tear his eyes away from the curve of Geno’s clasped hand to look up at his face, Geno looks wrecked – as wrecked as Sid feels. And the way he’s looking at Sid…

Sid has never been looked at like this – like he is the most precious thing someone else has ever loved. Like he’s so precious that Geno can hardly believe he’s allowed to touch.

Before Sid can think of anything to say—before he’s even sure he wants to—Geno’s other hand comes up to Sid’s other shoulder and starts tracing down Sid’s arm like an echo. The reverence in Geno’s touch is unmistakable. Sid can’t help holding his breath in anticipation, but Geno’s so careful, so painstaking, and this time, Sid _knows_ what’s waiting for him when Geno reaches his wrist. He knows, and he can’t help the “ _Please_ ” that slips through his lips, hardly more than a breath. “Please, Geno.”

Geno’s breath catches, and he reaches for Sid’s wrist right away – he doesn’t make Sid wait. His grip, careful and sure, sets Sid on fire.

The first hand had filled Sid with warmth, safe and soothing. This… this is more than warmth. This is _heat_.

Sid gasps, and Geno says his name, brow furrowed with concern. But when Sid manages, “Geno,” his voice is liquid, promising, and Geno’s eyes go dark with arousal.

“Sid,” he rasps, “don’t want to rush you…”

“It’s not rushing.” Sid smiles, beautifully sure. Everything is so simple with Geno holding him tight. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

Geno groans, and then he’s kissing Sid again, kissing Sid like it would kill him to stop. When their mouths finally do part, he pushes Sid down onto his back, still holding his wrists securely, and goes back to kissing him.

It feels so good, being underneath Geno, feeling Geno’s welcome weight pinning him down—and then Geno pulls Sid’s wrists above his head and holds them there, and Sid has to throw back his head and moan. He’s never felt pleasure as deep and dark as he feels right now, crashing over him like a wave, rippling down from Geno’s warm grip on his wrists to the base of Sid’s spine, and then straight to his dick.

It’s more pleasure, richer pleasure, than Sid even knew he could feel, and somehow it’s still not enough. Sid shifts his hips up, up, wanting more. “Please, Geno,” he begs, not even sure what he’s begging for, trusting that Geno will know what he needs.

“Fuck, Sid, so hot.” Geno’s breathing is ragged, and his eyes are hungry as they roam over Sid’s body. “If you want stop, you just say stop and I stop—”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Sid says, very sure. “I just want you – God, Geno, I want you so _much_.”

“Oh, my Sid,” Geno murmurs, low, and Sid shivers all over with pleasure. Geno flexes his grip on Sid’s wrists and says, “You be good, keep for me right here.”

And oh, this Sid knows he can do. He knows he can be good for Geno like this. “I will, Geno,” he promises, “I’ll be good, I’ll keep my hands right here.”

“Yes.” Geno leans down for another heated kiss. He lets go of Sid’s left wrist and reaches down to unzip Sid’s jeans and shove them down. When Geno’s hand closes around Sid’s cock, Sid has to squeeze his eyes shut and whimper – it’s almost too much. Geno’s grip on his wrist, Geno’s grip on his cock; Geno’s weight holding him down, and Geno’s order holding him together. “Please,” he gasps again, “Oh please, oh please, Geno…”

“You want to come, Sid?” Geno asks, jacking Sid so slow and tight.

“I—yes,” Sid says, because it’s true, and he can’t imagine lying to Geno, about this or anything else. “But mostly I want _you_ to come,” he confesses, words choppy because it’s hard to keep his breath steady. “I want to please you, with my body, with my obedience—”

Geno groans. “Of course please me, please me most, please me always,” he repeats, fumbling with his own fly. When he gets his cock out—when Sid sees how hard he is, just from having Sid under him—Sid moans again, even louder.

“You like?” Geno whispers. “You like you make me hot?”

“Yes,” Sid responds, nodding hard. “That’s what I want, Geno – to make you feel good, to be good for you—”

“You good, Sid,” Geno says, reaching up to brush his fingers briefly over Sid’s uncovered left wrist, still stretched out above Sid’s head where Geno told him to keep it. Tenderly, eyes soft, he tells Sid, “I see how you good for me.”

Like a hand digging into the tight, painful center of a knot in a muscle that’s been tensed for years, Geno’s words release something inside of Sid – it hurts, the way that healing does, but the relief is stronger than pain and pleasure both. Sid tries, and tries, and tries—he can’t help it, it’s in his wiring—and no one ever notices, no one ever sees how hard he tries to be good…

But Geno sees. He said so. And finally, _finally_ being seen, being understood, strips Sid naked in every way, helpless and new, but safe in Geno’s hands.

Sid doesn’t know when he started sobbing, but he can’t seem to stop. It doesn’t feel bad at all – he’s still so, so hard in Geno’s hand, maybe even closer to the edge now that he’s finally let it all go. Geno is kissing his face, kissing the tears from his cheeks, murmuring, “Yes, you good. So good for me, so beautiful, such good boy…” and his hand is stroking Sid just right, just perfect.

“Please, Geno,” Sid manages, his voice a wreck, “please, I’m going to come, please say I can come, I want to be good—”

“Yes, you can come,” Geno says firmly. “You deserve, so good for me, do just like I say.”

With Geno’s approval, in Geno’s hands, it’s easy to let go of his last bit of control and tip over the edge. It’s a long fall, but he knows Geno will catch him.

Geno stays with him, kissing him, praising him—and then, even better, Sid feels the hot splash of Geno’s come on his belly. _That’s for me_ , Sid thinks, sure that he must be glowing bright enough to be seen from space. _I pleased Geno,_ my _Geno, and he shared his pleasure with me because I was good._

Geno’s face is buried in Sid’s neck, and his hand is still fastened around Sid’s right wrist, keeping Sid grounded. When he gets himself together, his first glance is up at Sid’s hands, to see if Sid remembered and obeyed.

_I did_ , Sid says silently, spine straightening with pride. _My hand is still there, right where you put it, even though I came. I didn’t forget. I wouldn’t_.

“So good,” Geno proclaims, smiling sweetly down at Sid. “Keep hand just like I put – oh, Sid, so proud.” He scooches up until he can kiss Sid’s free wrist, then lets Sid’s right wrist go and kisses that one, too. “You can move now,” he tells Sid.

Sid does, winding his arms around Geno’s neck and tilting his own head up to beg wordlessly for a kiss.

“Like kisses so much,” Geno says approvingly, rewarding Sid with a brief, soothing brush of lips. “Is good – I like also.”

Geno helps Sid sit up with his back against the wall; then he bites his lip, looking conflicted. “Need bring you Gatorade,” he mutters, half-rising to his feet before swiftly crouching down again, hands fluttering over Sid’s shoulders, Sid’s face. “But can’t _leave_ you,” he says, sounding distressed, as if Sid being alone right now is the worst thing he can imagine. Then his face scrunches up and he agonizes, “But can’t let dehydrate—maybe bring you to kitchen? But don’t want move you—”

Sid wants to laugh, but he thinks that wouldn’t be very nice, so instead he says gently, “I’ll be okay here while you go get some Gatorade,” because he _is_ pretty thirsty, but he also doesn’t really feel like moving.

Geno’s eyebrows bunch up anxiously. “You sure? Don’t want to leave you, Sid.”

Sid smiles up at him and nods. “I’m sure. You’ll be right back, right? In, like… a shift. I can wait a shift.”

“A shift,” Geno repeats, with a quick nod. “Yes. I be back in a shift. I run,” he adds, straightening up and then dashing around the corner. He’s back with Gatorade—red for Sid, his favorite—in no more than twenty seconds, and he cracks the cap on Sid’s before handing it to him, thoughtful as always. He settles down next to Sid, wrapping an arm around Sid’s shoulders and sipping on his own Gatorade. Then he stiffens. “Blanket,” he mutters, “I need get blanket for keep you warm—”

“It’s fine, Geno,” Sid says patiently, amused and touched in equal measure. “I don’t need a blanket. You’re doing a great job keeping me warm, okay?”

Geno hums his assent, but he doesn’t look happy. If anything, his frown deepened when Sid said he was doing a great job, and Sid doesn’t understand why. He swallows, nerves chasing away some of the post-scene glow. “Is something wrong?” _Did I do something wrong?_

“No, no,” Geno rushes to reassure him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Is just… I feel bad a little, how I treat you – not nice like you deserve,” he says, with audible self-reproach.

Sid can’t believe his ears. “What?” he asks, sure he must have misheard.

Geno’s shoulders hunch up a little, and he says quietly, “When I hear you talk about other doms, I get so mad how they don’t treat you right, and I think—I think, ‘I’m do better,’ have all these fantasies about first time with Sid, how I make special, perfect. And then you kneel for me and I just… I’m same as other doms, doms I think so shitty—”

“You are not—” Sid starts, fiercely, but Geno is on a roll – the words just keep spilling out of his mouth.

“I want so special, and then I… on _floor_? Not negotiate, not even take off clothes, only hold you with hands—”

This is a million miles from what Sid was expecting, but it’s kind of reassuring, in a weird way, to know that Geno can get insecure, too.

Sid shakes his head and says firmly, “It was perfect, okay, Geno? _Perfect_. I wouldn’t change—well, okay, next time we should negotiate more,” he allows, “but you made sure I knew how to stop you if I needed to, so it was fine. Better than fine. I—Geno, I’ve never…” Sid stares down at the floor, breathes. “I’ve never felt anything like that,” he says softly, and Geno makes a small, low noise. “I didn’t even know I _could_ feel like that. It was so good. There’s nothing I would change about it, okay? _Nothing_.”

Geno ducks his head down to kiss Sid, then noses at Sid’s cheek. “My Sid,” he says fondly, in a low voice, “always so nice, so encourage. And is most sweet. But not have to, Sid – I know is not all you want—”

Confused, Sid stammers, “W-what do you—”

Words start spilling out of Geno’s mouth in a tumble, one on top of the other. “Sid, you know I’m not a lot experienced with hit, with hurt, but I’m gonna get better – I know dom who is sadist, very good dom, and I’m ask him to be mentor, teach me so I can give what you need—and I’m not have toys you need, but I buy, buy canes and whips, and I learn, I promise—”

“Geno, no.” It’s probably disrespectful to interrupt, but he couldn’t wait any longer for Geno to take a breath. “G, I don’t—I don’t want that.”

“Don’t want…” Geno starts, brow scrunched in confusion.

“I don’t want you to hurt me like that.” It’s more complicated than that—Sid remembers his second scene with Shea, and he can imagine wanting to go back to that place again sometime—but they can talk about the exact definitions later.

Geno’s voice comes out slowly, hesitantly. “Sid, don’t understand. If you want from other doms…” Geno looks away. He says quietly, sounding crushed, “You don’t believe I can do for you. Don’t think I can take care right.”

Sid’s heart thumps in his chest, and he can’t speak fast enough. “ _No_ ,” he says, “no, I’m sure you—I didn’t, Geno. I… I didn’t want those other doms to hurt me that much, either,” he admits, barely audible. “I told them I liked it, but. I lied.” He could put a better face on it, but that’s the real truth. “I lied to them about what I liked. And I don’t want to lie to you.”

Geno stares at him, dumbfounded. “You… you lie? Why? To please…”

“That was part of it, yeah.” Sid shrugs. “They wanted to do this stuff to me, and I wanted to please them.” That, he’s pretty sure Geno will understand. It’s normal—messed-up, but normal—for a sub to want so badly to please his dom that he doesn’t safeword when he should. Whether Geno will understand the rest… Sid’s not sure.

Geno seems to be absorbing that, and Sid lets him think in peace. Eventually, Geno offers, “Don’t have to tell me other part if you don’t want…”

“I… should.” But it’s hard.

Geno tentatively wraps his other arm around Sid, so Sid is completely encircled by his arms. “This help?” When Sid nods, Geno pulls him close and waits patiently.

“The rest was… a lot of things,” Sid starts. “I thought I had to like it—to like pain—to be a ‘real sub.’ Like I was a bad sub if I didn’t want that—”

“Sid, lots of subs not like,” Geno interrupts, face scrunched up with consternation, “don’t have to be masochist to be sub—”

“I get that, like, theoretically. I guess.” On his good days, maybe. “But even then… I mean, you know what people say about me.” Sid looks at the ground, hot with shame. “How I’m weak – a crybaby, a pet… and I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted to prove I wasn’t those things. To everybody else, definitely, but also… to myself.” He draws in a shaky breath – this is the hardest thing. “Because I was… I was afraid they were right. Because of the stuff I _do_ want – I was afraid that that made me… all of that. You know. Weak. A bad sub.”

“What you do like?” Geno asks softly. Sid swallows and doesn’t say anything. “Sid, anything you want, is okay. Okay? I’m not think bad of you for anything.” Sid hesitates, and Geno adds, “You want I wear Flyers sweater and pretend to be Giroux, even this is okay.”

“Eww, no.” Sid wrinkles his nose. He can’t help smiling, though, and when Geno smiles back, that gives him courage.

“I want you to touch me,” Sid begins, then clarifies, “with your hands,” thinking of how much better it had been to have Shea hit him with bare hands. Then he realizes that may have given Geno an incorrect impression, and he blurts out, “And with other parts! Um, of your body. Other parts of your body. Definitely. Like your—” Sid just barely cuts himself off before he says _Like your dick_. He can feel himself blushing. “I’m such a moron,” he mutters.

“All sound good so far,” Geno says firmly, pulling Sid a little closer. “What else you want?”

“I want to kneel for you,” Sid says, adding, “in scenes, I mean—I’m talking about stuff I want in a scene—but, um.” He feels shy saying this, but he’s not sure why. “I’d also… like to kneel for you outside of a scene sometimes. Not all the time.”

Geno, bless him, just nods encouragingly.

Voice getting stronger as he goes, Sid says, “I want you to hold me down, or tie me up. I want to please you. I want you to tell me what to do, and I want to do it. I want to be good for you.”

“Want to be my good Sid,” Geno murmurs, and it hits Sid like the first bite of food after years of hunger.

“Yes.” He rests his head on Geno’s shoulder. “That’s what I want.”

“What else you want?”

This part is the most difficult to say. “I want you to take care of me,” Sid whispers, past the lump in his throat. “I want you to praise me, and to be gentle with me. I mean, not all the time, I’m not—rough is good, too, sometimes. But. Mostly. That’s what I want.”

Geno presses a kiss to Sid’s forehead. “All good. What else?”

Sid blinks. “I can’t think of anything else,” he confesses. “Is that bad?”

“No, no, is not bad!” Geno looks confused, though. “Just… I wait for you to say weird thing, and all these things you want, all very normal things for sub to want. Maybe is bad English, make me not understand?”

Sid stares at Geno, who looks equally perplexed back.

“Bondage, obedience, kneeling, submission, take care…” Geno lists, brows drawn down over his eyes, “Sid, these very, very common. Why you feel bad about want these things?”

Sid tries to explain. “They’re not _weird_ , necessarily—well, the gentleness, I guess—it’s just… everything I want is like… easy stuff, you know?” He shrugs. “It’s not—it’s all stuff that feels good, like nice stuff. I mean, basically what I just said is, like, ‘I want a dom to be nice to me,’” he says derisively. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing most doms dream of hearing.”

“Sid—” Geno sounds lost, frustrated. “ _Lots_ of doms want to be nice – _I_ want to be nice. I _like_ to take care, can’t say you don’t know this.”

“No, yeah, you do. And I’m… I’m really, really glad,” Sid says softly. “I’m really happy that the stuff I want is stuff that you want to give me, but you know if I told _other_ people what I want, they’d—I mean, it’s kind of lazy, isn’t it? To only want to do this easy, nice stuff—”

“Sid.”

Sid closes his mouth. Geno is looking at him with incredible fondness, which is good, but he also looks kind of sad, which is bad. Geno says, “One. Why you give a shit what stupid people think about your submission? Shouldn’t. Two. You like what you like. I like what I like. Is just how we made – is not good or bad, lazy or not lazy. Tie up is hard, but nobody say dom is lazy if she not want to tie up,” he adds, which is… a good point, actually.

“Three.” Geno smiles. “Bondage and obedience – they easy for you? Good. But not easy for all subs, Sid: lots of subs don’t like bondage, or they like, but is hard for them to trust this way. Obedience, same. Is what brat _is_ , Sid: sub who don’t like to obey, or sub who like to obey, _want_ to obey, but is hard, need dom’s help to obey.” Geno squints for a minute, then adds, “Or sub who don’t give a shit about obey, just like to be punish, or think is sexy to piss off dom. Is complicated, I guess.”

“Huh.” Sid tries to wrap his head around that. He’s absorbed so much judgment and disapproval for so much of his life that it’s weird to think of specific practices as being, like… value-neutral. Not as good or bad, but just as a matter of personal taste. He doesn’t think he’s going to be able to incorporate in the space of a few minutes all the new ideas that Geno has just dropped on him, but it definitely gives him something to think about.

Geno nudges Sid in the arm. “You feel okay to get up now? Want to get you clean, get you food.”

“Yeah, I’m good to move,” Sid replies, levering himself up. He follows Geno upstairs to the master bedroom and through into the bathroom, where Geno starts gently scrubbing at Sid’s belly with a washcloth.

_Just like the first time_ , Sid thinks. It makes him feel warm through his whole body. As Geno patiently wipes away the two layers of spunk coating Sid’s skin, Sid realizes that the conversation that they’ve had so far has been pretty one-sided.

“Hey, um—what… what do _you_ want?” Sid asks. As soon as he says it, he flushes and wishes he could take it back. If there’s something Geno wants he’ll tell Sid to do it, it’s pushy to ask in advance—

But Geno smiles up at him and nods. “Good to ask. Go both ways, yes?” Then he chews on his lip for a minute; when he speaks again, he sounds a little unsure. “You hear people call me ‘service top,’ yes?”

“Yeah.” Sid debates with himself, but eventually says, “It didn’t seem like it was a—a nice thing.”

Geno shrugs. “Some doms think service top is not real dom – just sub with dom skills. Is bullshit, but…” He makes a face. “Still not nice to hear. You know what service top is?”

“Not exactly,” Sid replies, although he has some idea. “Are you… is that you?”

“Yes. Service top mean different things for different doms – for me, mean what I want is take good care of sub, give sub what you need. So you ask what I like, but truth is I like to do for you what _you_ like.” He kisses Sid’s forehead. “I like you need me to give you what you need. Is what make me feel good, and is what get me off, you know?”

“Huh.” Sid ponders this. “So if what really took me down was… I don’t know, having you dye my hair blue and… sprinkle me with paprika, you’d dye my hair blue and sprinkle me with paprika, and as long as that worked for me, you’d be into it?”

Geno laughs quietly before saying, “Yes. Very into blue paprika Sid. Would be best at dye your hair, practice a lot, pick best dye; pick best paprika, cover eyes to keep you safe. And if I see you like a lot—see you very turn on, see you go down for me this way—then I like a lot also.”

Sid thinks about that a little more. “Okay, but there’s got to be stuff that you like just… for itself. I mean, stuff that you like more than other stuff, even aside from how much your sub likes it. Right?”

“Yes,” Geno agrees. “Hard for me to enjoy scene if is not something I know my sub want, but lots of subs like Sid: want lots of different things. And some I like more, for myself. Here, we go to kitchen for food,” he adds, straightening up and beckoning for Sid to follow.

“So will you… tell me about them?” Sid asks as they walk through the bedroom.

Geno nods. “I’m not remember everything, I think, but some things I like a lot… What I like most is bondage, restraint, probably – so I’m happy you say you like,” he tells Sid, smiling. “I like very, very much, and I like all kinds: like rope bondage, like cuffs, like… you know, just hands, hold down, all this. So is very good.”

After thinking for a few seconds, he continues, “I like… sometimes sub want to do better some thing, learn something—usually for scene, but sometimes out of scene—and I like to help, like training this way. Is discipline, but helping discipline, so is best. So I like training sub. And also I like blindfold, and sometimes… ear plug? Is how you say? Um…”

“Sensory deprivation,” Sid supplies, and Geno kisses his cheek in thanks.

“Yes. I like this very much. Like to have sub rely on me, you know? Submission always, always need trust, but trust… What I like best, best, best,” Geno says softly, looking down at his hand wrapping around Sid’s wrist, “is have sub’s trust. And sub who let me blindfold, tie, cover ears – this is _a lot_ trust, I know. And mean a lot to me. Make scene extra special. So. Those are things I like.”

Bondage, Sid’s definitely up for. He’s not sure what the training would entail, but it doesn’t sound bad right off the bat. And even though he hasn’t considered earplugs before, he thinks they sound okay, and he knows for sure he likes the thought of being blindfolded.

“That’s all good with me,” Sid says. When he realizes that he actually means it, a wide smile steals across his face.

After they eat lunch, Geno hustles Sid upstairs for a nap. He spoons up behind Sid, which is delightful; Sid had worried that he might have trouble sleeping with Geno in the bed, but it turns out not to feel that different from the sub cuddles that he’s used to with Jack or Flower.

When they get up from napping, Geno asks diffidently, “You have to go? Happy you stay, but if you need to go—”

“I don’t have to go,” Sid assures him. “I need to work out today, but—” He cuts himself off when he realizes he was about to say _But I can do that here_ – he shouldn’t assume that he can just help himself to stuff in Geno’s house.

Geno says, “Can use my gym, yes,” sounding pleased. “I also need work out, so… together?” he proposes, before giving Sid a sly look and saying, “Or maybe you too much distract, hmm?” He starts pulling these ridiculous poses, flexing his biceps, waggling his butt, until Sid dissolves in laughter.

It _is_ actually kind of distracting having Geno working out with him, but in a nice way. Geno has a gorgeous body, and now that Sid knows he can touch, it’s kind of hard not to start imagining what that’s going to be like.

When they’re done, they share a shower, and Geno carefully asks if he can wash Sid, or if Sid would rather do it himself.

“Oh,” Sid breathes, surprised. He doesn’t have to think about it long. “I like it when you wash me,” he says. “It reminds me of—of that first time, when you took care of me—”

Geno nods, eyes soft. “Remind me also,” he says. “Good memory for me.”

As Geno gently rinses the welts that still mar Sid’s upper back, he says in a low voice, “Want for long time take care of my Sid—not mine then, but I want—so that time, when Flower bring you, is mean a lot to me.”

“A long time,” Sid echoes, curious. “How long?”

Geno makes a face, but he answers. “You remember my second year? When I offer dom you—”

“Since _then_?” Sid blinks, trying to wrap his head around that. “Is that why you…”

Geno nods. “I know now is not right thing to do, but back then I think… Sid have hard game, hard month – maybe… maybe I can help. Maybe I make feel better, a little. And then maybe…” He looks shy. “Maybe if I do good, if I make feel better, then next time is bad game, is something else bad, maybe you come to me. And if I do good again, if I take good care, then maybe you think about me different way.”

“What do you mean, think about you a different way?”

Geno shrugs, squeezing more soap onto the washcloth. “Back then, I think you so great, Sid—I’m still think!” he adds hastily. “But I think, then… I’m good at hockey, I have money, maybe those things impress other sub, but not impress Sidney Crosby, best hockey player in the world. I’m have no English, know I sound stupid to you,” he says, and his voice is tight with old pain. “I’m look at you, so great, so special, and I’m think, what can I give such good sub? Why he look at me?” Geno shrugs, not making eye contact. “But I’m good at dom. I know I’m good at dom. So I think if you see how good I take care, maybe…” He trails off.

“Geno,” Sid says urgently, “I _never_ thought you were stupid, I thought you were _great—_ ”

“I see that, later,” Geno replies, smiling a little, just at the corners of his eyes. He lathers up his hands with shampoo and starts massaging them through Sid’s hair. It feels incredible.

Geno continues, “I’m not think this way anymore. This is thinking from when I’m little baby NHL player, all insecure and homesick. Later, I’m see you like me a lot, just don’t want. And don’t want is not because I’m bad, but just because you don’t want dom then. Want friend. So I’m be friend. And be friend make me happy.”

“It made me happy, too. I hope—” Sid’s nervous, all of a sudden. “—I hope we’ll still be friends, even though…”

“Of course friends,” Geno says, eyes wide. He pulls Sid toward him and buries his face in the curve of Sid’s neck. “Always friends,” he says, muffled.

“And, uh… you being good at hockey really did impress me. Um. Does impress me.” Sid can feel himself blushing, and he’s pretty sure that “impress” in that sentence came out sounding way more like a euphemism than he intended.

Geno pulls back and gives Sid a sly look. “Oh, yes?” he asks, smirking. While Sid stammers out some kind of an answer, Geno chortles and manhandles Sid over to the showerhead to rinse out the shampoo.

For dinner, they have borsch that Geno’s mom made for him and froze when she was last visiting.

“I don’t share with anybody,” Geno informs him as they wait for the soup to reheat, “except maybe Gonch and Sasha, because too good and nobody deserve. But you deserve all good things.” He kisses Sid on the cheek, and Sid’s heart feels a sudden sympathy with the block of melting borsch.

After they’re done eating, Geno asks Sid to stay at the kitchen table. Looking nervous, he explains, “I’m get something for us, okay?”

“Sure,” Sid replies, a little puzzled but willing to be patient.

After a few minutes, Geno comes back with a small sheaf of papers. “I print these from internet,” he explains. “You say before that talk about limits, set limits, is hard for you, so I think maybe list help.”

He hands Sid half of the papers; when Sid looks at them, he sees a list of practices or acts next to three columns reading “Yes,” “Maybe,” and “No.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sid says, relieved. “We did this in health class once.” He takes the pen that Geno hands him and starts going through the list. At first, he checks each item off as he goes along, but after he gets through the first half-page or so, he realizes that he’s already accumulated multiple “No” entries, and there’s still two and a half pages to go. Clearly, he’s got to be more strategic about this.

Geno is sitting across from him, flipping through his own list, so Sid decides the easiest thing is just to ask him.

“Hey, Geno?”

Geno looks up. “Hey, Sid.”

“How many ‘no’s do I get?”

For a few seconds, Geno’s eyebrows draw together, like he’s confused. Then he physically flinches, and looks terribly sad.

“You get all ‘no’s you want,” Geno tells him, voice scratchy. “You get a hundred ‘no’s. You want put ‘no’ for everything on list, is okay. Just have to be honest.”

“I… okay,” Sid responds, his voice coming out small. “Did I—should I not have asked? Did I do something wrong?”

Firmly, Geno takes Sid’s hand and says, “No, is very good you ask. Very important we talk about, because I think somebody teach you that sub should lie about ‘no’s, but is not right. Shouldn’t lie, not ever. No is no. Shouldn’t pretend no is yes for please me or anybody.”

_But what if one of my ‘no’s makes you not want me?_ Sid thinks.

“What?” Geno asks, watching Sid’s face closely.

After taking a breath for courage, Sid repeats the thought out loud.

It makes Geno looks sad again, and he gets up out of his chair to come over and hug Sid. “I know why you worry,” he says quietly. “But is not happen. If you don’t want thing I like, is a little bit disappoint, but we do other things. Is lots of list, Sid! We find many good things for do. Don’t worry about this. Is a lot more bad if you let me do thing you hate and I find out later.”

Having already seen what the aftermath of that looks like, Sid has to agree. “Okay,” he says, ducking his head to kiss Geno’s hand on his shoulder. “I—I can trust that.”

It’s a lot easier when he thinks about it that way – as a gesture of trust that he’s making to Geno. Each checkmark in the “no” column feels less like a presumptuous interference with Geno’s dominance and more like a statement of devotion: _I trust you to want me even though I won’t do this. I trust you to love me even if this is something you would miss doing. I trust you to stay even though I can’t offer you a blank canvas to paint on._

It’s exhilarating, in a way, to finally let out the truth that he’s kept locked away for so long. _No, I won’t let you choke me. No, I don’t like being caned. No, you can’t use a knife on me. No, I’m not into exhibitionism._ Sid even starts writing little addenda on some of them: _I’m not okay with you even talking to anyone about what we do in a scene_ , on the line next to “exhibitionism,” for example, or _But you can tell me to be quiet. I would really like doing that for you_ , next to the “no” checkmark for “gags.”

When Sid finally reaches the end of the list, he feels like he probably looks kind of crazy around the eyes, but he’s proud of himself. He was honest, just like Geno told him to be. He made the leap of faith. And if he ends up hitting the ground as a result, then at least for once in his life, he fucking stopped pretending. It’s a good feeling.

He looks up, expecting to find Geno waiting, but Geno is still bent over his own list, looking a little perplexed. “Not know all these words,” he mutters before looking up at Sid. “You help?”

So then Sid scoots his chair around the table to lean into Geno’s shoulder and help him with words he doesn’t recognize, or words that have a second meaning that he doesn’t know.

Sid is surprised to see Geno marking “No” so often… or at all, really. “I always heard that… doms want to do everything, and subs are always the ones who ruin the fun by having limits,” he explains to Geno when Geno inquires about his surprised expression.

Geno makes a distressed noise and smushes Sid into his side. “So much bad,” he mumbles, “don’t know where I start. Okay, first, limits not ruin fun. Next, doms have limits, too. More next, doms also just have… taste, you know? I don’t know any dom want _everything_.”

_Doms have limits, too_ , Sid thinks. _Huh._ It makes sense, now that Geno says it. It’s just not anything he’s ever thought of before.

They exchange their lists and then each read the other person’s silently. Sid doesn’t see any other real surprises on Geno’s list, beyond the sheer number of “nos” and “maybes.” Sid does see some “yeses” where Sid himself put “no,” though, which doesn’t feel great. He stuffs down the urge to apologize or offer to take the list back and change it. If that stuff is really important to Geno, he can tell Sid about it, and then maybe Sid could try it, or just do it, like, once a month. He wants to keep Geno happy.

When Geno is done with Sid’s list, he looks up and smiles. He asks, “Lists good? Help?”

“I think so, yeah,” Sid replies, and Geno’s smile broadens.

He keeps Sid at the kitchen table for a while more, holding Sid’s hand, plying Sid with Gatorade and desserts, talking about nothing much. Sid appreciates the recovery time. He was telling the truth, the lists were a big help… but the emotional work he had to do to fill them out was pretty exhausting.

It starts getting late. Geno peers at Sid and asks, tentatively, “You stay here tonight, maybe?”

Sid smiles. “I’d like that, yeah.”

“Best.” Geno gives Sid a peck on the lips, then stands up. “Bedroom?”

“Yes,” Sid says, turning slightly pink against his will. He doesn’t even know if they’re going to have sex – Sid wants to, but maybe for Geno, once was enough for today.

Sure enough, Geno loans Sid some sweatpants for pajamas and changes into sweatpants himself. Then he sits at the head of the bed and beckons for Sid to join him. He positions Sid just so, with Sid sitting in between his legs and Sid’s back against Geno’s chest.

Once Sid is settled according to Geno’s specifications, Geno lets out a long sigh and wraps his arms around Sid. He hums contentedly and says, “Feel good, Sid.”

Sid smiles and leans back against Geno. “Me, too.”

“I want you do something for me, Sid.”

“Sure.”

“I want you tell me what is perfect scene for you,” says Geno. “Not what is okay scene, or what is don’t-mind scene, but best, most perfect scene you can think.”

“Oh.” Sid’s never actually thought about that before. He puts his mind to the task, feeling his way through it slowly. “I guess it would… I’d be restrained. I really want that.”

Geno asks, “What kind restraint?”

“I, uh.” Sid blushes. “I saw you put a ‘yes’ down for rope bondage…”

He can feel Geno’s smirk against his cheek. “I like very much, yes. And I have experience, a lot, so I know how to take care of you good this way. You want? Want I use beautiful rope to keep my beautiful Sid nice and still?” he croons.

Sid swallows. “Yeah. I want that.”

“Mm, I see you want, yes.” Geno reaches down to gently pat the growing bulge in Sid’s sweatpants. “But I think you want more things also. In perfect scene, you blindfold?”

“I…” Sid gives the matter some thought, and decides, “Either way.”

Geno makes a noise of protest, but Sid explains, “No, I—there’s good things about both ways. I’d like being blindfolded, but I like… I like looking at you, too. I want to look at you all the time.”

“Okay, Sid,” Geno says, apparently satisfied with Sid’s explanation. “So, in perfect scene, I tie; maybe blindfold, maybe not. I talk when I tie?”

That one’s easy. “Yes.”

“What kind of talk?” Geno asks gently.

“Praise,” Sid says, trying and failing to make it sound like this is easy for him to say. “That I’m being good for you, that you like it—or if I’m messing up, you tell me how I can be better, how I can fix it.”

“Okay, Sid.” Geno’s voice is low and comforting, and he takes a break to nuzzle just under the point of Sid’s jaw, which feels really nice. Against Sid’s neck, Geno asks, “After I tie, what next? I do something else, or just… let you be tie for a little time?”

Sid considers that. “I think… probably I’d want to take some time to just feel the restraint. To get my thoughts to settle down, I guess.”

Geno nods. “When you take time for feel, you want I’m quiet for this? Or talk?”

“I can’t think of any time I wouldn’t want you tell me I’m good,” Sid says honestly, and Geno gives a little chuckle, not meanly.

“I’m remember this,” he promises. “In perfect scene, what is next?”

Sid’s eyes drifted shut at some point—chalk one up for blindfolding—and he lets a stream of fantasies play over the inside of his eyelids. “I think,” he says slowly, “next I would want to—to blow you.”

“Sure?” Geno asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says, stronger. “I would want to make you feel good.”

“And I’m still talk for blowjob, yes?” Geno guesses. “Tell you how good you make me feel.”

“Yes.”

Geno hums, sounding pleased. “And how you want I’m finish? In mouth, on face, something else—”

“I think I’d want you to come in my mouth,” Sid says, although honestly, any of those options sounds good to him.

“Then what is next? In perfect scene?”

“I… you’d let me come.” Sid knows that some subs don’t want that, but in his fantasies, he always does.

Geno nods again – he doesn’t seem surprised or weirded out. “How you want to come? You want I touch you?”

“Yes,” Sid says right away. He can feel himself starting to slip under as the words spool out of his mouth. “I’d want that. I always want that—for you to touch me. And you’d be kissing me, and you’d taste yourself in my mouth, and you’d like it—”

“Fuck, Sid.”

“And you’d tell me to come for you,” Sid continues, unable to stop, “and I would, and you’d like that, too.”

“Yes, would like.” Geno’s voice is scratchy. “You want be tied for blowjob, for come, all of this.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sid says fervently.

“Thank you for tell me all this,” Geno says, dropping a kiss on Sid’s temple. “You answer all my questions – make me very happy.”

“Thank you,” Sid says, quietly thrilled at Geno’s words. It’s kind of a trip to realize that he can please a dom— _his_ dom—by being _honest_ about what he wants.

“Sid…” Geno pauses, and Sid can feel Geno smile against his cheek. “Have to ask what you think about different kind of scene.”

“Sure,” Sid replies, puzzled but game.

“What you think about scene where you sit in my lap and I tell you say for me very sexy fantasy, and you say fantasy just like I tell you and is very most hot?” Geno’s voice drips with honey.

“I, uh…” Sid swallows. “That sounds… good so far.” He’s so fucking hard.

One of Geno’s hands slides down to rest along Sid’s inner thigh. “What you think if then I take your cock out, make you come with my hand, suck marks on your pretty neck?”

“I… would like that a lot,” Sid croaks.

“Okay, then,” Geno says quietly, “here is rules. You want I stop, just say stop, and we end scene or do something else or talk – whatever you need. I’m only do what I just tell you I’m do, so you know what is happen. You feel like you gonna come, you tell me, and I give permission. This all okay for you?”

Sid nods quickly. “Yes,” he says, “yes, please.”

“Good, good, good,” Geno tells him, punctuating each word with a kiss to Sid’s neck. Then, true to his word, he pushes down the waistband of Sid’s sweatpants to expose Sid’s cock. He wraps a sure hand around Sid and starts to stroke.

Sid groans. He can feel Geno’s hard-on against the small of his back, and he gasps out, “What about you? Don’t you want—”

“I’m think about this, you not. You just take what I give, beautiful Sid – you just be good for me, yes?” Geno murmurs in Sid’s ear.

“I can do that,” Sid pants. Fuck, Geno’s hand is moving so slowly – he’s going to make Sid completely desperate if he keeps this up.

“I know you can.” Geno’s voice is low and sweet in Sid’s ear. “You always so good for me, always perfect…”

“Geno—”

Geno wraps his other hand around Sid’s wrist, holding tight, and Sid can’t help the noise he makes, or the way his head tips back onto Geno’s shoulder in bliss. There’s no way he’s going to last.

Geno’s mouth is busy sucking on the left side of Sid’s neck, marking Sid as _his_ , and Geno’s hand on Sid’s cock is finally, _finally_ starting to speed up. Sid’s hips start hitching into Geno’s hand helplessly, and he can feel the pleasure building in his groin. He remembers Geno’s rule and begs, “Please, Geno, I’m going to come, I can feel it, it’s—please, Geno, please say I can come, please let me be good—”

“Yes, you come,” Geno says firmly, and Sid lets go with a choked-out moan.

He floats for a few seconds, anchored by Geno’s hand around his wrist. Geno is murmuring praise into his ear, calling him beautiful, telling him how proud he is that Sid remembered to ask for his permission to come.

Sid can feel Geno’s dick rubbing slowly against the top of Sid’s ass, and that brings him back to himself. He wants to volunteer to suck Geno, but he remembers Geno telling him not to worry about it, not to think about it, and he bites his lip.

“How you feel, Sid?” Geno rumbles.

“Really good,” Sid says, a little slurred.

Geno’s lips curve up against the back of Sid’s neck. “You thinking about this?” he asks, pulling Sid’s hips back against Geno’s erection. “You thinking about my dick, Sid? About my pleasure?”

“Yes,” Sid admits, hoping Geno won’t be angry.

Geno doesn’t sound at all angry, though – if anything he sounds pleased. “So sweet boy,” he praises, in a soft voice. “So sweet sub, want so much to please me.” He kisses and sucks the back of Sid’s neck, still working his dick back and forth against Sid, getting a little faster. He murmurs, “I see on list you say ‘yes’ for come play – you like I come on you, Sid? You like I mark you with my pleasure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sid says fervently, “please, Geno…”

“Then I give,” Geno decides. He places one hand on the back of Sid’s neck and folds him forward, until Sid is bent almost in half. Then Geno kneels up, straddling Sid’s back, and slides his hand up into Sid’s hair, holding him in place. “My beautiful boy,” he pants. Sid can hear Geno’s other hand sliding up and down his dick, slapping against his balls at the bottom of his stroke. “So good for me, best— _mine_ ,” Geno gasps, and then he groans, low and guttural, and Sid feels Geno’s come spatter the back of his neck.

Geno groans again, higher this time, then collapses to the side, patting Sid’s arm. “Good boy,” he mumbles.

“Mm,” Sid replies, high on Geno’s praise and the feel of Geno’s come trickling down his neck: the proof that Geno is pleased with him.

Sid keeps that high as Geno coaxes him into the bathroom to drink some water and take a shower. He notices in the mirror that Geno’s come has dripped down over the top of the welts Shea left on Sid’s upper back. It might have been an accident…

Geno notices him noticing and gives him an innocent look.

_Uh-huh_ , Sid thinks, amused.

Once Geno is satisfied that Sid is sufficiently clean, hydrated, and fed, he inserts them both back in bed under the covers and wraps a hand around Sid’s wrist. “I forget to do this first time, and I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide and solemn. “But this time, I’m not forget.” He kisses the pale inside of Sid’s wrist and recites carefully, “You honor me with your submission. Tonight, for sure—so sweet, so obedient, so sexy—but all day, also. You work hard today, I know.”

Sid starts to protest, but Geno shakes his head and insists, “You do. You try a lot new things, talk about things very personal, very—”

Geno says a word that Sid thinks at first is Russian – a second later, he realizes that it was Geno’s careful attempt at the English word “vulnerable.”

Geno continues, “Give a lot trust. All this is hard.”

Sid thinks over the shape of the day, takes stock of his own emotional and mental fatigue, and admits, “Yeah, it—there was a lot today.”

“Yes.” Geno kisses Sid’s wrist again. “And you do really good with all this and make me very proud and happy.” Then he kisses Sid on the lips, short and sweet. “And hope tomorrow is little bit more normal, more easy,” Geno adds, with a rueful curl of a smile.

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. Today was amazing, but he doesn’t know if he could take a week straight of todays. He kisses Geno’s knuckles and says, “It was an honor to offer you my submission. You were… you were always really patient with me and made me feel really safe, even though I’m guessing today was a lot for you, too.”

“ _Good_ a lot,” Geno emphasizes, before sighing and pulling Sid close, “but yes. I wake up this morning, think I fuck up so bad, think you be so mad at me, maybe not friends anymore… and then you come over, say want to be mine, we scene for first time, we have very big serious talk, I hear other doms treat you even more bad than I think, we talk about—feels like we talk about _everything_ , then more scene, and now I go to sleep with my Sid in my bed! So good! But so big change, you know? Whiplash.”

“Yeah, I get that.” That’s not too far off of how it was for Sid, too – expecting the worst, and then the about-face of realizing that all the stuff he thought would drive Geno away actually isn’t such a big deal after all… or at least, not to Geno.

Geno yawns. “Want to talk more about tonight scene, what parts you like most, not like most, but I think we do tomorrow – too tired now.”

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. “Same.” His eyelids are already drooping, and his limbs feel heavy and slow.

Geno tucks Sid in close, under his arm, and mumbles something that Sid thinks actually _is_ Russian this time. It doesn’t take long for the toll of the day and the slow rhythm of Geno’s breathing to knock Sid out.

 

*

 

Sid drifts awake feeling wonderfully warm, for some reason. As his sleep fuzziness fades, he suddenly realizes that he’s in _Geno’s_ bed, that that’s _Geno_ keeping him warm. And that’s amazing.

He feels a smile spreading across his face, and he lets it, snuggling up closer to Geno’s warmth. _Geno’s my dom_ , he thinks wonderingly. _And I’m his sub. And he’s going to wake up, and we’re going to kiss, and he’ll hold me, and_ —

Sid freezes, and a jolt of panic runs through him. _I’m Geno’s sub_ , he repeats to himself, _and he’s about to wake up and I’m just lying here like the laziest fucking_ —

Berating himself silently, Sid slips out of Geno’s hold and out of bed. Geno grumbles in his sleep but doesn’t wake up. Sid doesn’t like it, either—his instincts are screaming at him to get back in that warm bed, back to the comfort of Geno’s arms—but he forces himself to turn his back on Geno and walk away. He’s Geno’s sub; he has responsibilities now, and he doesn’t want Geno to be disappointed in him.

As he hurries down to the kitchen, Sid tries to think of all the things he’s supposed to do before Geno gets up. _Breakfast first, obviously._ He can’t think of anything else for a while; Dad always woke up before Mom, when Sid was growing up, to get in some practice with Sid, so he’s pulling all this from movies and TV shows rather than Mom’s example. He tries to think it through sequentially. _Well, Geno’s going to want to take a shower right away, so… Oh! I should put his towel in the dryer so it’ll be warm, and lay out a fresh bathmat_ , he thinks. _Then, for his clothes, I can_ —

He interrupts his frantic brainstorming to open the refrigerator and plan breakfast, but—

“Shit,” Sid whispers, stomach dropping. There’s nothing in the fridge but Gatorade and takeout leftovers, not even a carton of eggs. He’ll have to go to the store; he should have gotten up earlier, he should have been ready for this.

It takes some searching to find his shoes, and then some more searching to find his pants, which have his keys and wallet in the pockets. As Sid stands by the front door, stuffing a Pens cap over his bedhead, he hears Geno calling, “Sid?” from upstairs.

“Down here,” Sid calls back, a lump weighing down his stomach – he hasn’t gotten _anything_ done, he hopes Geno won’t be mad…

Geno comes galloping down the stairs, brow furrowed with worry – when he sees Sid standing by the door, he stops and blinks, looking lost. “You… leaving?” he asks in a small voice, and his shoulders droop.

“Just to get groceries for breakfast!” Sid rushes to assure him. “I’ll be right back, okay, I—”

Geno lets out a big whoosh of a sigh and pulls Sid into his arms. “Make me so worried,” he mumbles into the side of Sid’s head. “I wake up and you gone and I worry, and then I come here, see you leaving and I think maybe you… change mind,” he concludes, voice going soft and unsure. “About want to be mine.”

“ _No_ ,” Sid says fervently. “No way. I’m—I wouldn’t. I’m right where I want to be, okay, Geno?”

Geno sighs again and rubs his cheek against Sid’s hair. “Okay, Sid. Good. I’m happy.” In a slightly grumpy tone, he adds, “I’m not where _I_ want, though – want to be still in bed with my Sid. Why you get up?” he complains.

“Well, I—I had to make breakfast,” Sid explains, a little surprised.

Geno pulls back to give Sid a surprised look of his own. “Why have to make breakfast?”

Feeling kind of at sea, Sid says, “Because I’m… your sub?” He can’t stop his voice from turning up at the end.

If anything, Geno only looks more confused. “I don’t remember tell you make breakfast,” he says slowly. “I forget?”

“No, no,” Sid says, shaking his head, “you didn’t—you don’t have to tell me to. I know—I know my responsibilities.” He flushes red and says, low, “I know it probably doesn’t look like it right now, but I’m—I’ll get better, I don’t have a lot of experience with… with belonging to somebody, but—”

Geno touches Sid’s lips, and Sid falls silent. Geno gives him a thoughtful look, then says, “You tell me if I’m understand: you think if you mine, you have to make breakfast for me even if I’m not tell you. And have to do before I’m wake up.”

“Yes,” Sid says, on surer footing here.

Geno squints at him. “You think, if you mine, you have to make other cooking, too? Lunch, dinner? Snack?”

“I… yeah,” Sid says, back to being confused – he wouldn’t have thought they needed to spell this out. It’s obvious, right?

“Because you sub, and I’m dom,” Geno says, inflecting it as a question. “And sub cook and dom eat.”

“Yes?” Sid ventures.

Geno pauses for a minute, then smiles at Sid, the small smile that he gets when he’s about to tell a joke and wants to invite someone to enjoy it with him. “Sid, you hear me talk about my Mama’s cooking, yes? Talk about how she’s best cook?”

“Of course.” Geno will monologue about the awesomeness of his mom’s cooking to anyone who will sit still long enough to listen, and that’s been true for as long as Sid has known him.

Geno pauses again, then asks, “You know my Mama is dom, yes?”

“Uh…”

He _did_ know that, actually. He’d just… never put the two things together before now.

“Your mom is a dom, but she… she cooks. But—but that’s just because your dad had to work at the factory,” Sid thinks out loud, “so he didn’t have time to cook…”

But Geno shakes his head. “Mama work, too, Sid. Is not like rich America,” he adds, with a twist of a smile. “Magnitogorsk, everybody have to work. No, Mama cook because she’s woman, and in Russia, cook is woman thing and is not matter dom or sub.” He shrugs and gives Sid a penetrating look. “So if you _want_ cook for me, okay, I’m not complain… but I’m not expect, Sid. And for sure I’m not expect without even negotiate, you know?”

Sid feels like the ground is unsteady under his feet – unmoored, he sticks to what he knows for sure: “We don’t… we don’t have to negotiate about stuff like that,” he explains, almost desperately. “It’s just part of… being a sub. A good sub anticipates his dom’s needs,” he recites – words he’s heard so many times that he can’t even remember when he heard them first. “You shouldn’t need to _tell_ me or negotiate it – I should just _know_ , I should just _do_ it—”

“No, Sid,” Geno interrupts, almost gently. He cups Sid’s hands between his own and holds Sid’s gaze. “Is _nothing_ I’m just… expect. Anything I need from you, because is part of my dominance, I tell, so we can talk about. Anything you want do for me, because is part of your submission, _you_ tell, so we can talk about. Dom start to, mm, _assume_ he can have things from sub just because sub is sub… this is dangerous. Go to… bad place.”

“Oh,” Sid says, quietly. “I… I never thought of it that way.” He knows—or, well, he’s learning, anyway—that negotiation is important when it comes to sex, but he’d never thought of it applying to this kind of stuff.

“So you don’t… you don’t expect me to do, like…” Sid swallows. “You don’t expect me to clean the house?”

“No,” Geno says simply. “I’m not expect.” He peers down into Sid’s face intently. “This is only half, though. Other half is what _you_ want, Sid. You want clean house, cook? Um, want… domestic service? This is part of your submission?”

Everything around Sid seems to be moving strangely slowly, while his own heart rabbits in his chest. Numbly, he says, “Of—of course I do. Of course I want to be of service.” He’s not _lazy_ , he’s not _spoiled_ , they’re wrong about him—

Geno’s arm wraps tighter around his shoulder, and his voice is soft when he says, “Is no ‘of course,’ Sid, is not _assume_. What you want, Sid? Not what other people say you have to want, but what _you_ say you want?”

“I want to be good,” Sid says, hating how his voice comes out plaintive. His gaze is fixed in the distance, and he can’t seem to move it no matter how hard he tries. “I want to be good. And a good sub keeps a perfect home. So that’s… that’s what I want,” he manages, voice cracking. His breathing is too fast, he can feel it, and he’s getting lightheaded. “I want to—”

“Oh, my Sid,” Geno murmurs, and then he’s turning Sid to face him, gripping Sid’s shoulders and ordering him, “Look at me. Look.”

Sid does.

Geno’s expression is serious, intent. He holds Sid’s gaze and says, “You have to be honest with me, Sid. Have to tell truth, even when is scary or you think I’m not like. Tell me truth, Sid: when you think about… cook for me, or clean house, or do errands… is make you feel good? Satisfied? Is give you warm, happy sub feelings like when you think about I’m hold you?” He squeezes Sid’s shoulders and reminds him, “Honest, Sid.”

Sid doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He wants to be honest with Geno, but how can he when he doesn’t even _know_ what he fucking wants? _A good sub keeps a perfect home_ – those words were drilled into Sid before he even knew the difference between a sub and a dom. They’re tattooed onto his insides. They’re part of him on a level so deep that trying to think about them critically is like trying to perform open-heart surgery on himself. It’s hard, and it’s scary, but… _it’s what Geno wants from me_ , he thinks. _He said so. He wants the truth_. And Sid can’t deny him. He doesn’t want to. The answers to Geno’s questions scare him, but… he trusts Geno. At the end of the day, that’s what all of this is about. And if he trusts Geno to take care of him, then he can trust Geno enough to tell him the truth.

“No,” Sid admits, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s shaking under Geno’s hands, but he makes himself go on. “It—it doesn’t make me feel good. Thinking about… doing that stuff for you. It doesn’t make me feel submissive. If anything, it—” Sid snaps his mouth shut before his honesty gets completely out of control.

But Geno prompts, “It…”

And Sid sets his jaw and says, very, very quietly, “If anything, it makes me feel… resentful. When I imagine doing that stuff. God, Geno, I’m so fucking sorry,” he spits, opening his eyes again but keeping them fixed on the ground – he’s still shaking like a leaf. “I don’t know why I’m so messed-up, so lazy, I just—”

“No,” Geno says firmly, pulling Sid into his arms. “Is not for apologize. You not messed-up, and you not lazy, and I think you perfect, and I’m so fucking proud you tell me truth even though I see is very most scary for you, okay? You do so, so good for me just now, make me most proud.” Sid is dragging huge, ragged breaths into his lungs, trying hard not to sob, but it’s impossible: his eyes are stinging and his body doesn’t know which way is up after all the crazy surges of adrenaline he’s had this morning. He clings to Geno and buries himself in Geno’s words – lets himself believe them, and believe the way that Geno is holding him close.

Geno blows out a breath and says, “Make me so mad how other people make you always think lazy and bad, make you always think is only one okay way to be sub when is _not true_. Fuck.” He huffs out another breath and says, “Come on, we sit down, too much feelings standing here at front door.”

He herds Sid into the living room and plops them down on the couch, keeping Sid tucked under his right arm the whole time. He starts by saying, “So, first, I’m very proud you honest for me like I say, even though I see is very, very hard for you. You do most good for me, deserve most nice reward – I’m try to remember tonight, when we go to bed, but if I forget, you remind me.” He tilts Sid’s face toward himself with two fingers under Sid’s chin and says seriously, “You remind me because I say. Because _I_ say you deserve. If I forget and you don’t remind me because you don’t think you deserve reward, _then_ I’m disappoint.”

Sid flushes pink and nods—it doesn’t say anything great about him as a sub that the thought of intentionally not reminding Geno _had_ crossed his mind, for exactly the reason that Geno said… but the fact that Geno knows him so well is a comfort.

“I’ll remind you,” he promises. Then, biting his lip, he asks, “You… really don’t mind that I don’t want to do domestic service? Like… at all?”

“No, don’t mind,” Geno replies easily, as if it doesn’t go against everything that Sid has ever learned about what it means to belong to a dom. “I’m never have sub who is into domestic service before—and Papa is not domestic service also—so I’m not miss.” He chews on the inside of his cheek for a second before explaining, “In Russia, is not so much pressure on subs to do not-sex stuff all the same – is not so much expect for this kind of thing. Is not so big deal if sub don’t want collar, don’t want domestic service.”

Geno would know better than Sid, for sure, but… “You make it sound like Russia is a really great place to be a sub,” Sid says as neutrally as he can, given that everything he’s ever heard makes it sound like the exact opposite.

Geno grimaces and shakes his head. “If is how I make, then I don’t mean. Russia is different, but I don’t think ‘better.’ Is less pressure for subs to do not-sex stuff, but… is _more_ pressure for sex, a lot. Unclaimed sub walk on street in Russia, doms yell dirty things, follow, grab, touch—is bad. Unclaimed sub have job in Russia, boss who is dom or switch expect sex. Is why I—you remember first time we meet, at Mario’s house, and I’m think you Mario’s sub?”

Sid winces at the memory – an awkward one for both of them. “Yeah.”

“Is why I think,” Geno explains, eyes dark. “In Russia, team owner have uncollared sub player, he’s expect sex from player… and if player stay in his house, then for _sure_ player is his.”

Geno sighs. “I’m lucky,” he says, “because Mama and Papa not like this – they have good relationship, make good, um… picture for me. So I grow up with good picture of how dom should be, how dom should treat sub, but many doms in Russia not so lucky – grow up with shitty picture, so they grow up and be shitty doms, too, because is what they know.”

“Not just in Russia,” Sid says, with more bitterness than he intended.

Geno’s head falls forward a little. “No,” he says sadly. He squeezes Sid’s hand, and Sid squeezes back, taking and imparting comfort.

They sit on the couch for a few minutes. Sid’s heart rate settles back into its normal resting state, and his stomach makes its demands known.

Sid gives Geno a sideways look. “So much for today being easier.”

Geno laughs. “New things not ever all easy. Is okay.” He kisses Sid. “Come on, we get delivery breakfast, then go to practice.”

“You can get breakfast delivered?”

“You have a lot of money, you can get anything delivered.”

Sid heads home after breakfast to change into his own clothes, making it to practice just in time. For the first ten minutes, he can’t figure out why half the doms on the team are treating him so gingerly, like a land mine waiting to go off—

Then he remembers that it was less than 48 hours ago that he came back wrecked from the scene with Shea and snapped at them. To Sid, that feels like forever ago; so much has happened since then. But to Tanger and Duper, yesterday was just a normal off day, and the last time they talked to Sid, he was a mess.

Sid takes Tanger aside as soon as he has the chance, and tells him quietly, “I know I was a mess in Nashville, but I’m doing really good now.”

Tanger lets out a _whoosh_ of a sigh and says, “I’m glad. I’m really fucking glad.” For a second, he looks relieved – then guilt creeps across his face. “I’m… I’m sorry, Sid,” Tanger says, really quietly. “I fucking know better, I’m the one who tells these other assholes that your private life isn’t their business – I shouldn’t have grabbed you or messed with your clothes like that. I just… I really fucking want to protect you, Sid,” he says, looking helpless. “We all do.”

“I get that,” Sid replies, equally quietly. “And… look, you weren’t wrong. I did need help. But I’m not… I’m not yours to grab or expose or push around.”

“No,” Tanger agrees, hanging his head.

Sid can’t bring himself to say _It’s okay_ , but that’s all right – Tanger wouldn’t believe him anyway. Instead, he says, “I know you won’t do it again,” which isn’t a hundred percent true, either, but it’s close. He’s known Tanger a long time now, and one of the things he’s always liked about Tanger is that he learns from his mistakes.

“Thanks,” Tanger responds, bumping his elbow into Sid’s and smiling. Then he narrows his eyes. “You gonna tell me who that dom was who messed you up?”

Sid shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I won’t be seeing them again.” Which is true—regardless of how things go with Geno, Sid’s sure he and Shea won’t ever be scening again—and a lot simpler than trying to explain how there was plenty of blame to go around that night.

Of course, he has one teammate who is extremely clued-in to what’s been going on with him over the last few days.

Flower steals Sid away from the rest of the team for lunch, ignoring Geno’s bereft glances and Duper’s well-meaning attempts to tag along. He starts interrogating Sid before they even get to the restaurant.

“So? Did you talk to Geno?”

“We… yeah. We talked,” Sid says, trying not to blush too obviously.

“And…?”

“And we’re… you were right. He loves me,” Sid says, hearing his voice go soft with wonder.

“So are you guys dating now, or…”

“We’re together. Serious-together.”

“Yeah!” Flower punches the air, celly-style. “I fucking told you—”

“I already _said_ you were right.” Sid’s smiling too widely to project any real irritation.

They’ve arrived at the restaurant, and Flower mercifully pauses the interrogation until they’ve both gotten their sandwiches and found a secluded table.

“So from the way you turned red when you said you guys ‘talked,’” Flower makes obnoxious air quotes with the hand that’s not holding his sandwich, “I’m guessing you guys did more than talking.”

“That’s none of your business,” Sid says, which is totally valid and correct, before immediately relenting. “But yeah. We. Yeah.” He can feel himself smiling like a dope again.

“And was it good?” Flower’s expression has softened – less gleeful, more gentle. “Was it what you needed?”

“It was…” Sid can feel his eyes burning as he tries to think of how to say that, for the first time in his whole fucking life, kneeling for Geno made him feel like his submission was a gift to be shared, not a problem to be managed. Since he can’t cry in a public place, he says simply, “He didn’t hurt me, Flower. Not at all.” That still, almost a day later, feels like a fucking miracle.

But Flower looks crushed, and reaches out to touch Sid’s forearm, sandwich forgotten on the table. “Shit, Sid. I’m sorry, _cher_. Sometimes people just aren’t compatible, even if they love each other—”

Sid blinks, bewildered. “Flower… what?”

“The pain,” Flower says, looking pretty heartsore himself. “I know you need it – maybe you guys can compromise, work something out—”

Sid looks down at the table. His appetite is gone. He should have known a hardcore masochist like Flower wouldn’t understand.

Softly, he tries, “I’m not like that, Flower.”

“Not like what?”

“Not like you. I don’t—what you get out of it. I don’t.”

Flower blinks. “But… those times you showed up with… those bruises, those welts…” He’s starting to look sick. “You didn’t want those?”

Sid shakes his head.

“Sid…” Flower’s at a loss for words in English, apparently, because after a long silence, he unleashes a stream of wrecked-sounding French, too fast for Sid to keep up.

“I did like it once,” Sid says, trying to explain. “It wasn’t what I went into the scene wanting, but it—in the end I liked it. That time.”

“That _one_ time. _Caliss_ … When you told me, just now, that G didn’t hurt you… was that the first time…”

Sid nods.

“ _Tabarnak_. Sid…” Flower has been running his hands through his hair, and now it’s standing up in tufts, making him look even crazier than usual. “Sid, _why_?”

Sid shrugs, shoulders tight. He’s already explained this to Geno, and that was hard enough. He’s not sure how much he has left to give. “I thought I was just a bad sub,” he says bluntly. “God knows I hear that enough. And I’m—you know. I’ve never been the most traditional sub. So that made it easy to believe that—that everyone was right. That there was something wrong with me.”

Flower is quiet for a minute, chewing thoughtfully on his sandwich. “G doesn’t think you’re a bad sub, does he?”

“No.” Sid can feel a smile blossoming on his face again. It feels fierce this time – valedictory. “No. Geno thinks I’m _great_.”

“Then fuck the rest of those assholes.” Flower mirrors Sid’s smile, then asks faux-casually, “So now that I know Geno not hurting you isn’t a dealbreaker…”

“What now?” Sid groans.

“Did he rock your world?” Flower leans in, ridiculously earnest. “You can tell me the truth, Sid. Are you ruined for any other dom now?”

“It was…” Sid revels in the novelty of being able to be honest about his love life – of not having to put on a performance. He concludes, in a half-embarrassed rush, “It was so fucking hot, Flower.”

Flower fist-pumps again, quietly crowing, “Get it, Sid!”

“I will,” Sid replies, knowing he looks dorky and probably smug as hell. “I have,” he adds, which makes Flower crow more stupid noises at half-volume.

“So it’s good.”

Smiling, Sid replies, “It’s really good, yeah.”

“Are you going to tell anybody?”

Sid gestures at Flower with his sandwich.

Flower rolls his eyes. “Anybody _else_. The team? Your family?”

Sid shakes his head. “Not the team. And family—that’s pretty serious. Or… it seems that way—”

“No, you’re right, family is a big deal,” Flower says, nodding. Then he points a finger at Sid. “But on the other side, family is people you know you can trust. Yes?”

“That’s true.” Sid ponders the question. “I think I’ll probably tell Taylor,” he decides. “I’ll wait on my parents. And you can tell Vero, if you want.”

Flower sniffs. “Obviously I am telling Vero. She was basically dying of suspense yesterday.” He squints at Sid and says, softly, “She thinks of you as a little bit hers, you know.” He doesn’t sound at all jealous – if anything, the softness in his voice sounds fond.

Then he shrugs and says in a normal voice, “So she will probably puff out her chest at Geno and tell him how much you enjoy coming over to our house, and maybe glare a little, and when they’ve stomped around each other for a few minutes, she will grudgingly say that she has noticed you looking particularly well lately.” At Sid’s baffled stare, Flower explains, “Looking well taken care of – it is a compliment to his ability to properly care for you.” He rolls his eyes. “Doms.”

“Doms are fucking weird,” Sid says, from the bottom of his heart.

Flower nods. “Oh god, yes.”

 

*

 

By unspoken agreement, Sid gets in his own car at the end of the day, but drives straight to Geno’s house. Tomorrow is a game day, so he’ll have his routines, but today he’s free to do whatever he wants.

Geno stops at the grocery store on the way home and picks up pasta fixings for dinner. As he putters around the kitchen, he asks Sid, “Yesterday you say can’t tell anybody about you. You mean? Not anybody?”

“I was thinking about that earlier,” Sid answers, “and I—I don’t want to say you can’t tell _anybody_. Your family is okay, for sure, and close friends – I told Flower, obviously.”

Geno chews on his lip. “We tell team?” he asks. “Is not all close friends, but is not same as tell reporters, whole world…”

Sid thinks about it. He doesn’t really trust everybody on the team to keep their mouths shut about a story this big and explosive. And on a deeper level, he doesn’t totally trust the team to keep treating him like his own person once they know that he’s _Geno’s_ person; claimed subs deal with a somewhat different sack of bullshit than single ones, and Sid’s not eager to pick that sack up. But doms are possessive, he knows that: they want to show their subs off, want everyone to—

Sid flushes when the other side of that occurs to him. “We can if you really want to,” he says reluctantly. “But you… you shouldn’t, probably. You’ll get a lot of shit for it. For me. A sub is a reflection on his dom, and the way I act… the way I dress, the way I—people will think less of you,” he says, even though it hurts. He can’t look at Geno. “I’ll reflect badly on you.”

Geno makes a wordless noise of denial and pulls Sid close. “ _No_. No, Sid. You reflect good on me, always. Proud my sub is so strong, so beautiful, best in the world, good, kind person.”

“You know what people say about me,” Sid warns, voice still low and ashamed. “That I’m mouthy, that I’m disrespectful, that I don’t know my place—”

“I know they say,” Geno responds, with a look of disdain, “and I know is shit. They say this about any sub have something they want. Just jealous. _I’m_ not jealous. I have everything I want. Even best, most special sub,” he adds, eyes soft. He kisses Sid’s forehead, then turns back to the stove. “So, okay, I don’t worry about reflect on me – still you don’t want tell team?”

“Like I said, you—you can.” Sid looks back down at the floor.

Geno hums consideringly. “But you don’t want.”

“But you do,” Sid counters.

Geno hums again. “I’m think for a little bit. Wait, okay?”

“Okay,” Sid replies, voice shaking. He tries not to let his nerves eat him alive as he sets the table for the pasta.

After they sit down and start eating, Geno speaks. “For now, is okay we don’t tell team, tell only very close, like family and Gonch or Flower. I can see is a lot scary for you, think about more people find out, and is okay for me.”

Sid feels a wash of relief—but then Geno starts talking again.

“But I’m not okay with be secret forever, Sid,” he says. “Hide is hard, lie is bad, and I want do things like take to restaurant, normal relationship things, you know? Someday. And also I’m just… proud, you know, like I say!” He holds out his hands, palm-up, like _what can I do?_ He continues, warmly, “Want everybody, all world know that so good sub trust me for take care.”

“That’s fair,” Sid says. He didn’t love hearing it, but everything Geno said is reasonable – and it’s not the dom-specific stuff that Sid was mostly expecting, either. Wanting to be able to go on dates in public and not wanting to lie about stuff that’s really important in your life… those are things that anybody might want. Stuff that, on some level, Sid himself wants, even if he has other desires right now that outrank those. Hesitantly, he asks, “Do you… when—”

“Yes, I think about this also,” Geno says, nodding. “I think… if we in place where you want give me ring—not wedding ring, just dom’s ring, to go with ring I have for Penguins…” Geno gestures at the black-and-gold ring he wears on his right hand to signify his position as alternate captain. “…then I think I need people know. If we this serious someday, then is serious enough I need not secret anymore.”

_I want to give you a ring right now,_ Sid thinks, a split-second of romantic irrationality. Then he takes a deep breath, resolves to behave like an adult, and says, “That makes sense.” And it’ll give him time to plan for how he’s going to deal with people treating him like an appendage of Geno rather than a person in his own right. He’s not exactly looking forward to it, but it’s better than losing Geno… or keeping Geno, but making him really unhappy.

“Good, good.” Geno peers at him from across the table. “You don’t like pasta? I make extra boring, just for you!”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sid says automatically, shoveling a spoonful of pasta into his mouth. Then he blanches. _What the fuck were you thinking?_ he berates himself.

As soon as he finishes chewing and swallows, he casts his eyes down and says, “I apologize. That was disrespectful.”

“No, was fun,” Geno replies swiftly, much to Sid’s surprise. Geno tips Sid’s chin up until Sid meets his eyes. Holding Sid’s gaze, he says, “I promise we always friends. And friends make fun sometimes, make swear sometimes – is normal, fun.” He smiles. “My dominance not so small that little ‘fuck you’ is hurt it.”

“Okay,” Sid says, warmth pouring through him. He takes another bite of pasta. “I really do like the pasta, though.”

“I know,” Geno says smugly.

 

*

 

That night, as they walk into the bedroom, Sid takes a breath and says, hesitantly, “Earlier, you said that… I should remind you of something when we went to bed.” He’s hoping that that’s all he’ll have to say, but Geno prompts him to go on with an inquiring hum. “You said I should remind you that you wanted to… reward me.”

“And why I say I want to reward you?” asks Geno.

Sid flushes. “If you don’t remember, then it must not have been a big deal—”

“I remember, Sid. But I want you say.”

Sid gins up his courage. He stares at the floor, and the words come out so slowly that it’s almost painful, but he says them. “You said you wanted to reward me because I was good. Because I was honest. Even though it was really hard.”

“Yes,” Geno says, and he pulls Sid close for a kiss. “Proud of you this morning – and now more proud, because you remind me just like I say.”

Sid turns even brighter pink, overwhelmed and pleased by the praise.

Geno asks slowly, “So now what I’m do for reward?” He looks at Sid, and Sid can see a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Last night, my sub tell me very sexy fantasy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sid starts to grin.

“Mm, yes,” Geno says, grinning back. “And he tell me this fantasy is very most perfect, favorite scene for him. So I think, hmm, this sound like pretty good reward for my sweet sub. What you think, Sid?”

Sid feels a little short of breath. “I think that sounds amazing,” he manages.

They talk about condoms—required for anal, by mutual agreement, but not for oral—and agree on green, yellow, and red as safewords. Geno pulls out the lists and goes through every one of Sid’s “no”s to make sure they both remember them, and then goes over any of his own limits that might apply during the scene they’re planning tonight. None of it is stuff that Sid would otherwise be inclined to do, but the process makes real for Sid, in a way that just skimming the list hadn’t, that Sid really is responsible for Geno when they scene. _I have to be careful with you_ , Sid thinks, looking at Geno’s familiar face in a new way. _I get to be careful with you._

When they’ve wrapped up the negotiation, Geno walks over to a folding door in his bedroom wall, one that Sid’s never seen opened before.

Geno notices Sid’s curious expression and smiles, eyes bright with excitement. “Is my domming closet. You want to see?”

Sid follows Geno into the closet. He has to catch his breath at the rainbow of colors that greets him. Coils of rope hang on the walls in a profusion of shades and textures, from rough to silky-soft. There are metal cuffs washed in gold or silver or platinum, or etched in intricate designs, and leather cuffs tooled with delicate scrollwork, or covered in rich brocade. Sid runs his fingers over silk scarves and luxurious strips of velvet that could serve as restraints or as blindfolds. Jeweled nipple clamps dangle from glittering chains, and even the three pairs of safety scissors resting by the door are beautifully decorated.

Sid drinks it all in, eyes wide. “Your domming things,” he whispers, “they’re all so beautiful.”

Geno looks pleased. “Of course beautiful,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “Can’t use boring thing on beautiful sub. Is like put beautiful art in ugly frame, or on ugly wall. All wrong,” he pronounces.

_Like beautiful art in an ugly frame_ , Sid hears again, echoing through his head. _Like a beautiful painting_.

“Is that how you see me?” Sid asks, voice shaking. “As a… a beautiful painting?”

Geno shifts on his feet, looking unsure. Carefully, he says, “I see you like person, Sid—”

“I know you do,” Sid says, fast, grasping at Geno’s arm, “but—I just, I can’t explain why, but it’s important. Do you—”

“Yes,” Geno says with passion. “ _Yes_. Beautiful sub is… work of art. If art is in my hands, is big responsibility – have to handle very careful. Have to admire, treat with respect.” He smiles at Sid and cups Sid’s cheek in his hand. “And I like to… show off best, you know? Put in best frame, best light, in best room, for show how beautiful. Yes, Sid.” He tugs Sid close and kisses him, chapped lips confident against Sid’s own. “You person, always,” he says into the inch of air between their mouths. “But like work of art, too, for me.”

Sid nods, but he has one more question he needs to ask. “Not like… a blank canvas?” At Geno’s look of incomprehension, he rephrases, “Like a big, empty… square with no paint on it? For you to paint?”

Geno’s forehead creases even more. “No,” he replies, frowning. “Maybe some dom think like this, but… who want sub have no—no personality, no self, no—no _life_?”

Sid draws in a breath, but it’s ragged – his chest feels so, so tight. “I think lots of doms want that,” he says. His voice comes out sounding like a rusty hinge. _I know lots of doms want that. Because that’s what they’ve kept trying to get me to be, every fucking minute of every fucking day_. _To be nothing. To be something less than a person._

“Then stupid,” Geno says firmly. “Who is want empty sub?” He snorts. “Only empty dom.”

Completely on instinct, Sid’s knees fold and his arms reach out, and before he knows it, he’s kneeling at Geno’s feet, wrapped around Geno’s leg, pressing his face into Geno’s thigh.

“Sid?” Geno rests a hand tentatively on Sid’s head. “Is okay? I say wrong?”

“No,” Sid manages, voice still scratchy as hell. He kisses the denim covering Geno’s thigh and holds Geno tighter. “No, you said exactly the right thing. You said it exactly right.”

 

*

 

The next morning, Sid wakes up in Geno’s bed and basks in his own good fortune. He’d been flying up with the moon and stars last night, kneeling at Geno’s feet with Geno’s ropes twined so perfectly around him that he couldn’t tell where the ropes ended and he began. And now, he gets to lie all warm and cozy in bed with Geno spooned up behind him and _stay_. It’s awesome.

Geno seems to agree, when he wakes up a few minutes later. He makes a series of increasingly pleased wordless noises, then snuggles up to Sid and mumbles, “So nice wake up with my Sid.”

Sid can’t help smiling like a lunatic. “It’s really nice waking up with you, too.”

It’s a game day, so after breakfast, Sid reluctantly takes off to begin his game-day routine. The familiarity of that routine helps, a lot – so much has changed in Sid’s life over the last few days, but he’s still going to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and take his special route to the locker room and play two-touch with his teammates. Some things don’t change, and that’s a comfort.

Of course, it cuts both ways: there are other things that don’t change, too, and those are… not comforting. Getzlaf—apparently having learned nothing from Iggy at the Olympics—spends every faceoff asking Sid how much head he had to give to get into the NHL, apparently on the premise that Sid couldn’t have made it on talent alone. This is so obviously ridiculous—for fuck’s sake, Sid was on the fucking Olympic team, he won the Art Ross, he’s on track for the Rocket Richard this year—that it should slide right off of him. Hell, it should make him laugh.

But instead, it hurts. Getzlaf was his teammate, even if it was just for a couple of weeks. He knows Sid. And he still thinks this shit is okay to say. It makes Sid feel… useless. Like none of the things he works so hard on—his professionalism, his standard of play, his accomplishments on and off the ice—make a difference. At the end of the day, even to the people who have the most reason to respect him, he’s still just a sub. And that means he’s nothing.

After the game, at Geno’s house, Sid can’t quite shake the feeling off. Geno clearly notices, and just as clearly isn’t sure what to do about it. After shooting Sid uncertain looks for about ten minutes as SportsCenter plays in the background, Geno asks quietly, “You okay, Sid?”

“I will be,” Sid replies. He lets his head tip over onto Geno’s shoulder. “Just… some stuff that got said. The same stuff as always. It’s just—in my head a little more than usual.”

“Mm.” Geno stays quiet for a few more minutes – the kind of quiet that means he’s thinking something through. Eventually, he says, “If you want kneel, I can get pillow.” His voice is totally neutral – no suggestion either way.

Sid knows that Geno doesn’t want to assume that he’s entitled to non-sex things from Sid in general, but kneeling is so basic – Geno’s got to know that’s different.

“You can tell me to kneel, you know,” Sid says, twisting his hands. “When you think I need it, or it would be good for me…”

But Geno shakes his head and says, “No. Can’t tell you, Sid.”

“Why not?”

Geno tangles his fingers with Sid’s. “You teach me. Long time ago.”

“What do you mean?”

Geno pauses for a minute, probably gathering his words. Then he says, “You remember, first time I ask you if you want kneel for me, because I see you sad and frustrated. And is wrong, because kneel not always what you need. Sometimes help is hug, instead, or candy, or play video games. So is better you ask for what you need, instead of I’m tell, you know? I like you ask, because ask let me give – show me you trust me for give,” he adds, with conviction. “Give kneel if you need, but also give kisses, or play Call of Duty or give sweet food. And is better because then I know for sure what I give is what you need, yes? Is better for both, then.”

“Oh,” Sid says softly. He knew Geno remembered what they’d talked about that night—the candy bars had been a pretty unmissable clue—but he hadn’t realized that Geno had put so much thought into it. Geno had made it sound like everything he just said was obvious, but Sid’s betting it’s a long road from offering to dom your teammate because he’s stressed to waiting for your submissive to ask for what he needs. And that touches Sid more than anything – that Geno was willing to put in the work.

_It’s not useless,_ Sid thinks. _I don’t know what the difference is between doms like Geno who are willing to work on themselves and learn, and doms like Getzlaf who aren’t. But whatever that difference is, I can’t control it. All I can do is try to speak my piece. The doms who are worth it will listen._

“Sid?” Geno asks, looking a little worried.

“Sorry. Just thinking.” Sid kisses Geno on the cheek. “You’re right,” he says. “Kneeling isn’t always what I need. And I’m really glad you know that. But tonight, I think it is what I need. So… may I kneel for you, Geno?”

Geno shivers. “Okay, also this is kind of hot,” he mumbles. In a stronger voice, he says, “Yes, Sid. Can kneel for me. I find pillow, hang on.”

On his knees for Geno, the tightness in Sid’s shoulders from the ugliness of tonight’s game melts away, and he feels like he can breathe freely again. This is a space for him to lay his burdens down – to think about nothing except the beating of his own heart and the soft strokes of Geno’s fingers through his hair. If there’s something he should be doing, Geno will tell him – and since Geno isn’t telling him, he knows there’s nothing he needs to do. This, here, offering up his submission in the bend of his joints and the press of his temple against Geno’s thigh, is his only duty. This is enough. On his knees at Geno’s feet, Sid has no battles to fight. Here, where Sid’s submission and Geno’s dominance meet, he is released.

 

*

 

They don’t have sex that night – Sid’s not feeling it, and Geno doesn’t seem to be, either. Sid’s still a little slow and quiet from kneeling, so Geno just steers him up to bed and gently prompts him through his bedtime routine and under the covers.

When Sid wakes up the next morning, it’s to Geno trying to sneak out of bed.

“Have to call parents, tell them about you,” he whispers, petting Sid’s cheek. “Time difference is asshole – go back to sleep, Sid.”

“Mmkay,” Sid says, and rolls over, glad to obey.

Geno wakes him up a second time, this time for real – they have to get to practice. In the car, Sid asks, “So, um… what did your parents think?”

Deadpan, Geno says, “Mama ask if you get hit on head.”

When Sid’s eyebrows fly up, Geno laughs, deep, from his belly. Merrily, he says, “I tell her, ‘He’s hockey player, of course hit on head!’” He continues, more seriously, “They very happy. They know I like you, before, so happy you like me also. And they meet you, so they know you very polite, sweet, respectful… and also know you give me shit sometimes. Mama say I need,” he concludes, grinning.

Sid has basically always found the Malkin family internal dynamics incredibly charming, and this is no exception.

Between practice and weights, Sid asks Jen if he can borrow her office and then calls Taylor over Skype. He wants to be able to see her face.

“I told Geno I wanted to be his,” Sid says, pretty much right away – he was too nervous to wait.

“Oh!” Taylor’s eyes are round with surprise. “I… I didn’t know that was something you wanted. With anybody.”

“It didn’t used to be.” Sid shrugs. “But now it is. Sometimes the stuff people want changes over time.”

“Huh,” Taylor says – the expression on her face is thoughtful.

A little peeved, Sid asks, “Don’t you want to know what he said?”

Taylor smiles softly. “I’ve always gotten the impression that Geno kind of adores you,” she says simply.

Sid turns pink. “I don’t know about ‘adores,’” he mutters. “But he… yes.”

“Yes?” Taylor prompts.

“I’m his,” Sid says – it comes out low and wondering. “He wanted me to be his.”

“That’s awesome, Sid.” Taylor’s smile gets broader. “I’m super happy for you. Did you tell Mom and Dad yet?”

“Not yet,” Sid says, a little reluctantly. “If it gets more serious, I will, but for now…”

Sid remembers many uncomfortable conversations with his dad when he was younger, in which his dad tried to discourage Sid from getting involved with a teammate. At the time, Sid didn’t need the urging – the last thing he wanted was any of his dumbshit dom teammates touching him like that or feeling like they had any claim on him. But he’s going to wait on telling his parents about Geno until he’s sure he can articulate why getting involved with a teammate _now_ , when he’s a grown sub and knows his own mind, is different.

“Well, they’ll be happy for you, too,” Taylor says, with confidence.

Sid smiles. “Yeah, I think so.”

 

*

 

After weights and video review, Sid goes home with Geno. They end up making out in the garage until Geno’s stomach rumbles; then they laugh and go inside to figure out dinner.

They order Chinese, and Sid doesn’t see it coming until it’s too late – until Geno has dipped the first egg roll in the pale orange sauce and held it out toward Sid, looking so fucking hopeful, so tender, that he can almost, _almost_ control his instinctive flinch backward.

But not quite.

The look of hope on Geno’s face fades into hurt… and then, worse, into self-reproach. “I’m push too fast, I’m sorry, Sid—”

“God, no, Geno – don’t be sorry—”

“We wait, yes?” Geno’s voice is gentle, as if he’s talking to a stray cat. “And when you ready for hand-feed, when you want, you just say. I’m wait all time you want.”

It’s so tempting to just say “Okay” and hope that that’s the end of it—an easy out—but Sid can’t leave Geno waiting for a word that’s never going to come.

“Geno, I don’t—I don’t think I want to,” Sid manages.

“Not… never?”

Sid shrugs, avoiding Geno’s gaze. “I don’t know, G. Maybe something will change someday, but… even when I was just a kid, I didn’t want that. It just… made me feel bad to think about it. I don’t know why.”

Geno absorbs that, poking at the lo mein. Finally, he asks softly, “You ever try?”

The collar thing, Geno had accepted without blinking, but this… Sid can see him struggling. He swallows down the spit that’s suddenly collected in his mouth and says, “No. I never did. But if you want, I’ll try now. I’ll try it with you.”

“Sure?” Geno says, brow lowered, voice carefully neutral.

“I’m sure.”

Sid’s heart is rabbiting in his chest as Geno hunts through the takeout boxes and opens the Hunan chicken—Sid’s favorite. He tries to be touched that Geno noticed, but right now all of his emotional resources are focused on sitting still and trying not to jump out of his skin. He watches Geno stabbing a piece of chicken with a fork and lifting it toward Sid’s face – probably at a totally normal speed, but Sid feels like all of this is happening in excruciating slow motion.

_This is easy_ , he tells himself. _Open your mouth. Close your mouth. Chew. Don’t throw up or rip the fork out of Geno’s hands. Repeat._

And then Geno is smiling ruefully and pulling the fork away from Sid, and the next thing Sid knows, Geno has popped the piece of chicken into his own mouth and is chewing reflectively.

“What?” Sid drags in a breath and tries to understand what just happened. “I said I would try – it’s okay, Geno, I—”

“You do try,” Geno says firmly, “and mean a lot to me you try. But I see how you look on your face when you think I feed you, and I’m not—” He breaks off, and says more softly, “I’m never want to make you look that way.”

“I said I would try it and I meant it, G,” Sid says, torn between relief and disappointment. “Come on, we can try again—”

“No.” Geno gives Sid a tired smile. “Not try again, Sid. You don’t see look on your face when I do this, but… is bad. Scare me off hand-feed for life,” he adds, trying for a joke, but it doesn’t make Sid feel any less like a failure.

He looks down at the table, eyes stinging. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No sorry about this, Sid.” Geno fusses with the edge of his plate, aligning it with the table’s edge. “I want to make you happy,” he says softly. “Is why I want relationship with you in beginning, and still want now. I’m not ever want to be one of stupid doms who make you unhappy. Hand-feed make you unhappy, so we don’t do. Simple.”

“It’s _not_ that simple. Relationships are about compromise,” Sid argues, feeling keenly his history of exactly zero previous relationships, but still pretty sure he’s right about this.

“Yes, compromise,” Geno agrees, looking up. “I want to take care of you this way – intimate, little everyday life thing, be part of your life this way, show attention to you this way. I’m hope we compromise on find some way I can take care like this, show to you attention like this. But is not gonna be hand-feeding. We find some other way.”

Sid turns it over in his mind as they clean up after dinner. He sees where Geno is coming from – eating is an incredibly basic, everyday thing, but also an incredibly important thing. If you don’t eat, you die, after all. So he can understand why becoming a part of that aspect of someone’s daily life would be really meaningful and intimate.

Sid tries to think of other basic, everyday needs that Geno could help him meet. Humans need water, but Sid already knows he doesn’t like Geno putting water to his lips. He needs shelter, of course, but he doesn’t think just moving in with Geno would give Geno the same feeling. Plus, Sid was eventually going to do that anyway.

People need clothing, though. Sid puts some thought into that idea. When they’re cuddling on the couch, halfway watching NHL Network, Sid says hesitantly, “You could… dress me, maybe. If you wanted to.”

Geno looks thoughtful. “Dress like… put on clothes? In morning?”

“Yeah. It’s—like eating, you know, it’s something I do every day,” Sid explains, “sometimes more than once, even. And when I was thinking about it… I liked it,” he adds, shyly. “You could pick out my outfit, too, if you want.” Maybe then the rest of the guys will stop chirping Sid about his boring fashion choices. And if they do, he can always blame Geno.

Geno is quiet for a minute. Then he says, “But, Sid… if I’m put on you clothes… I’m just want to take off again.”

Sid can feel his cheeks burning. “Yeah, no, sorry – it’s a dumb idea—”

Geno makes a distressed sound and pulls Sid around to look at him. “Is good idea, Sid. I’m just joke, you know?” Then he amends, “Well, I’m not joke that I want to take clothes off you,” and winks, “but I think I’m like both. Morning I put on,” he says tenderly, kissing Sid’s cheek, and then continues, “and night I take off,” with a dirty grin.

“Yeah,” Sid says, liking the symmetry of it.

 

*

 

The next morning, Sid finishes his shower and steps into the bedroom to see Geno standing by the bed, clutching a pair of Sid’s socks and looking a little nervous. Geno’s brow is wrinkled up, and he’s shifting from foot to foot like he thinks Sid might have changed his mind. He wants to take care of Sid, clearly, but he’s just as clearly concerned about overstepping Sid’s boundaries. So, in other words, he’s perfect. Sid’s heart swells with affection – he can’t imagine wanting anyone else.

Before Sid offered himself to Geno, he’d never have imagined that his _dom_ might need reassurance from _him_ , instead of the other way around. But part of Geno’s incredible generosity as a dom is that he lets _Sid_ give _him_ things when he needs them, instead of the giving all going one way, and the needing all going the other. He lets Sid see him vulnerable like this, and he trusts Sid to love him in his insecurity just as much as he loves Geno in his confidence.

So Sid smiles and says, “Hey. I’m ready for you now.”

He can see the nerves drain out of Geno, and then Geno is back to his usual bossy self, taking Sid’s towel and maneuvering him to stand by the side of the bed. Then, when he’s got Sid arranged just how he wants, he grabs a pair of Sid’s briefs and sinks down to his knees at Sid’s feet.

Sid’s breath catches. His brain doesn’t know what to do with the picture in front of him—a dom, his dom, kneeling in front of his sub. It’s all backwards, upside-down – a transgression.

“You don’t have to—” he rasps, throat suddenly dry.

But Geno asks, very reasonably, “How I’m put on underwear if no?”

And Sid can’t argue with that. He’s actually having increasing difficulty putting _any_ rational thoughts together with Geno’s mouth so distractingly close to—

“Ohh.” Geno smirks up at Sid when he sees Sid’s cock starting to chub up. “You like, I see.”

Sid flushes – it’s got to be weird, right, for a sub to get turned on by having his dom on his knees… but come on, Geno’s mouth is _right there_ , he dares anyone not to find that hot.

Geno leans in and licks a long, slow line up the side of Sid’s dick, and Sid can’t help whimpering.

“You don’t have to,” he blurts, “I know doms don’t like…”

Geno gives him a nonplussed look. “Doms don’t like what?”

“Um, giving oral sex,” Sid replies, confusion making his voice turn up at the end like a question. Maybe Geno wasn’t going to do that, maybe that’s why he looked confused…

Geno shoots Sid another look; this one, Sid can’t interpret. But all he says is: “Don’t know about other doms. But _I_ like.”

“Oh,” Sid says, dumbly, not sure how he got so lucky. “Well, uh. Then. Um. Please?” he asks, voice cracking.

Geno hums and kisses the base of Sid’s cock. “I like you say please,” he says contentedly. He adds, with a sly glance up at Sid, “I like suck your cock, too – I think I show you how much I like.”

Sid shivers. “Please,” he says again, breathy.

It turns out Geno likes sucking Sid’s cock _a lot_.

When he’s done, Sid has flushed cheeks, blossoming bruises on his hips from Geno’s grip… and still no clothes on.

“Okay,” Geno says decisively, his voice rough enough to make Sid shiver. “Now I get you dressed.”

He goes back to his knees and curls a hand around Sid’s right ankle – Sid shivers again. Geno tugs upward, and Sid lifts his foot obediently, then sets it back down once Geno’s got his briefs around that ankle. Then Geno repeats the process on Sid’s other foot – his hand feels so good, wrapped so tight around Sid’s ankle. Then Geno pulls the briefs up Sid’s legs.

But when he gets to Sid’s groin, there’s a… problem.

“You were holding my ankles,” Sid says, blushing furiously. “I can’t help it.”

A smile curls up Geno’s mouth, sharp and satisfied. “You like so much, hmm?”

Sid can’t look away from his eyes. He whispers, “I like when you touch me like I’m yours.”

“ _Always_ touch you like you mine, because always _mine_ ,” Geno rasps, and then his hands are on Sid’s sides, pulling him down, down—

In the end, it takes them three tries to get Sid dressed. Still, Sid’s pretty sure it qualifies as a success.

“Most success,” Geno agrees, grinning. He’s lounging against the wall like there’s no place else in the world he’d rather be, so plainly self-satisfied that he’s almost glowing. “How I’m so lucky, hmm, have smartest sub _and_ strongest, _and_ most beautiful—”

The praise makes Sid’s dick twitch, which is so unbelievable that Sid has to grope himself to check. “Stop it,” he hisses at Geno, “unless you want to go again—”

“Go again?” Geno says, intrigued.

Okay, _four_ tries.

 

*

 

So it’s going really well, basically.

But a couple of days later, in player parking, Flower says casually, “Hey, Sid, Geno – can I talk to you for a second?”

Sid and Geno exchange a glance and follow Flower into a corner of the garage, behind Geno’s car. Sid is having a sinking feeling: he’s assuming that Flower is about to either tell them they’re not being subtle enough and the team has caught on, or invite them over for dinner so Vero and Geno can have some kind of weird dom stand-off, and neither prospect exactly fills him with joy.

Once they’re out of sight of the rest of the team, Flower says, “So. You two are living together, eh?”

“No,” says Sid.

“Yes,” says Geno, at the same time.

Sid’s head swivels around to stare at Geno, shocked; Geno stares back, looking equally surprised.

Okay, yes, Sid sleeps in Geno’s bed most nights, and he hasn’t been home to do more than change clothes and handle some business in more than a week, and yes, he and Geno eat most of their meals together—

All right, when Sid takes the time to think about it, he realizes that Flower—and Geno—may be right.

Flower must see Sid’s dawning realization on his face, because he nods. Then he asks, “Second question. Don’t you think that’s moving a little too fast?”

“No,” Sid says, stung; simultaneously, Geno mumbles, “Yes,” and hangs his head.

Sid stares at Geno again, even _more_ shocked. _Too fast_? If Geno thinks that, why hasn’t he _said_ anything?

Flower smiles. “My work here is done,” he announces, then turns on his heel and walks away.

“Come on, Sid,” Geno says, still with a hangdog expression on his face. “We go to my house and talk.”

As soon as they’re in the car with the doors closed, Sid blurts out, “You don’t want me to live with you?”

“Do want,” Geno corrects immediately. “But don’t want rush, push. You never have even dating with dom before, and now is move in?” He shakes his head. “We have warm-ups before game for good reason, Sid.”

Sid ponders that. “So you’re saying we should… have a warm-up?” When he thinks of it like that, it doesn’t seem so bad.

“Yes.” Geno nods. “I think is right thing for take care of you best, and this is most important.” He shoots Sid a slightly wistful look. “Gonna miss have you in my house,” he murmurs. “But if warm-up is good, then you come back and live with me for real, and is best.”

“How long? For the warm-up.” Sid is aware that, like, several months is probably the standard amount of time before you move in with somebody, but he’s desperately hoping Geno will say “two weeks.”

Geno sighs. “Gonna be playoffs soon, then summer. So maybe… next season?”

“Oh.” Sid bites his lip. “That seems… long.”

Geno makes a disappointed face. “Long for me, too. But playoffs is not good time for make big change like move, and summer I’m not here and you not here, so can’t live together anyway.”

Sid can’t argue with any of that. “I guess so.” _Fuck_ , he thinks, staring down at his empty hands in his lap. _I just got this, and now I have to give it up._

“Don’t be sad, Sid,” Geno says softly. He reaches out and tangles his fingers with Sid’s. “We still be together – date, scene, always hockey together. Okay? I promise.”

“Okay,” Sid replies, ducking his head to kiss Geno’s hand. “Okay.”

So Sid takes a step back. That mostly means only going over to Geno’s house in the evenings when they’re in Pittsburgh, and not even every evening. He’s pretty sure that staying the night at Geno’s and getting breakfast with him in the morning is still more togetherness than Flower was envisioning, but that’s just too bad. Even the force of Flower’s disapproval is not strong enough to pry Sid out of Geno’s arms when they’re lying in bed together after a scene, drifting off to sleep.

And the hell of it, the part Sid hates to admit, is… it helps.

Before, he’d been letting a lot of the rest of his life slide, so drunk on his closeness with Geno, and, frankly, on the sex. He’s never had _really good_ sex before, and he understands now how people get obsessed with it.

He hadn’t slacked off on hockey, but looking back, he’d basically stopped spending time with his friends—stopped going out to Flower’s or Aggie’s places, or visiting the Lemieuxs, stopped calling Jack or Army, stopping hanging out with Duper or Karver—and he hadn’t spoken with his parents or his agent since that last night with Shea.

It had felt good at the time, wrapping himself up in a cocoon of Geno’s touch and Geno’s time… but now that he has some distance, Sid can see that it wasn’t healthy. Subs on TV may have lives that revolve solely around their doms, to the exclusion of any other relationships or priorities, but he’s not cut out for that—and it’s not fair to Geno, either, to make him the be-all and end-all of Sid’s happiness.

And once the playoffs arrive, it’s not a question of healthy or unhealthy – it just wouldn’t be _possible_ for Sid to be navigating a new live-in relationship, let alone a _secret_ new live-in relationship, in the pressure cooker that is the playoffs. Geno was right: the playoffs eat you alive, and Sid has nothing left to give to someone else. No fucking way.

Ottawa doesn’t give them too much trouble, although the 3OT leaves them all fucking drained, one step up from zombies. Montreal, on the other hand…

It’s not Montreal giving them trouble, is the thing. It’s—

“Fucking _Halak_ ,” Jordy spits after Game 4, the third game in a row that they’ve outshot the Habs, by a lot, and the second of those three games that they’ve lost. Jordy repeats, “Fucking _Halak_. God, is his dom waiting in the fucking locker room with a bullwhip at intermission? How the fuck is he—”

Sid’s had enough of that. “Shut the fuck up,” he says roughly, glaring at Jordy.

Jordy shoots him an incredulous look. “You _like_ what he’s doing to us?”

“Of course not,” Sid snaps. “I _hate_ it.”

“Then—”

“I _hate_ that we’re outplaying them night after night and he’s shoving the puck back down our throats.” Sid’s grinding his fucking teeth so much, he’s going to have to send Halak his goddamn dental bill if this keeps up. “But it’s got nothing to do with his fucking dom, and you know it. For fuck’s sake, Jordy – try thinking about Halak’s dom a little less and his glove side a little more.”

Which is harsher than Sid meant to be, but there was a voice in the back of his head whispering, _This is how it’s going to be if they know about you and Geno_ , and it made him scared, which made him mean.

_They’ll strip me of any kind of agency_ , he thinks bitterly, and he shudders. _Like Jordy just did to Halak. I’ll just be a puppet, dancing when Geno pulls my strings_.

He hates the thought, and he hates that he’s fucking _having_ the thought – it’s a distraction, and he needs his head to be one hundred percent in the game right now.

Flower, bless him, makes one last save tonight by telling Jordy mildly, “Yes, please do not repeat that. Vero already thinks that she can control everything on the planet – if she starts hearing that Halak’s wife can make saves for him, she will try to do the same for me.”

Everyone laughs and starts teasing Flower about Vero, and the tense mood in the room is defused.

That night, Sid piles into his car after the flight home and drives over to Geno’s, uninvited and totally exhausted. He needs to remind himself why that fear that whispered to him earlier shouldn’t make his decisions for him. He needs to remind himself why the sacrifice might be worth it.

“Sid,” Geno says when he lets Sid in, face drawn, “so sorry, too—too tired for scene or—or even kneel…”

“I just want to fall asleep in your arms,” Sid says, voice trembling, _everything_ trembling, and Geno pulls him close and murmurs, “Yes.”

A week later, it’s over. They outshoot the Habs nearly two to one, and lose five to two. The press blames Flower, and Flower blames himself – he looks shattered, like it’ll take a lot of picking up the pieces to get him back to himself.

Sid drives him home in fragile silence, and walks him into the house. He’s scared to leave Flower alone for even a minute. In the entryway, Flower drops to his knees, hard – the sound it makes is loud enough to make Sid wince. When Vero comes down the stairs, Flower starts sobbing before she even reaches him. He’s chanting something in French: _Hurt me, hurt me_ , Sid translates, and he has to bite his lip.

Vero leans down to kiss his forehead and says, very quietly, in the same language, _No, my love. I do not trust you to stop me. Not tonight._

Flower makes this horrible sound, almost a scream, and then he doubles over, weeping.

“Thank you for bringing him home, Sid,” Vero says quietly. She crouches over Flower, wrapping her arms around him.

Sid asks, before he can stop himself, “Is there anything I can do? I—” He presses his lips together. He shouldn’t have said it, but he doesn’t regret offering. It’s against his nature to leave Flower so upset like this, even in the most capable and loving hands.

Vero doesn’t dismiss the offer – she’s clearly giving it some thought, and after a few moments, she says, “I think… if you tell him that you love him, that would help.”

_Flower knows_ , Sid wants to say – but he knows how good it can feel to hear things like that even when you already know them to be true. He crouches down beside Vero and lays a hand on Flower’s back. “I love you, Flower,” he says softly. “You’re my best friend. You have never, ever, ever let me down. You are so, so worthy of being loved.” He closes his eyes and bends to kiss the crown of Flower’s head. “You’ll be okay,” he whispers. “Vero will take care of you. We all will, however you need us.”

Flower takes one shuddering breath in, then lets it out. “Sid,” he says, “thank you.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” Sid says with a flimsy smile that doesn’t do anything to hide how much he means it.

Vero smiles back, gently. “Thank you, Sid,” she echoes. “Sleep well tonight.”

“You, too.”

Back in his car, Sid texts Geno, _Should I come over?_ Geno can be unpredictable after big losses, and Sid’s not sure whether he’ll want company or not.

But Geno replies _Yes_ right away, so Sid drives over, not sure what state Geno will be in when he gets there.

When Sid arrives, Geno brings him up to the bedroom, not saying much on the way. Sid’s heartbeat starts to quicken, expecting that it means they’re going to scene… but when he walks through the bedroom door, he sees an open suitcase on the bed. It’s hard not to take that as a slap in the face.

Geno was ahead of Sid, so he doesn’t see Sid’s expression. He goes to his dresser and starts gathering the trinkets and keepsakes that have accumulated there over the course of the season.

_It’s not just Pittsburgh you’re leaving this summer,_ Sid wants to say. _It’s not just the team. You’re leaving_ me _, and you seem so fucking eager to do it_ —

But as Sid watches Geno, he notices some things that he missed before: the jerky quality to Geno’s movements; the way he doesn’t seem able to look at Sid; and the sharp downward hunch of his shoulders. He’s in a bad way – not as much as Flower, for sure, but he seems like he’s down a hole, trapped and ashamed.

Sid takes a stab in the dark. “Is this how you do it every year?” he asks gently. “Start packing right after the last game?”

“Yes,” Geno says, and he nods, almost robotically. He doesn’t seem totally aware of what he’s doing. “Yes, every year – not last year, obvious, too happy, but…” He trails off.

Sid crosses the distance to Geno and lays his palm on Geno’s chest, over his heart. “You seem kind of lost,” he says quietly, looking up into Geno’s face and waiting for Geno to look back. When Geno does, Sid asks, “Would it help if I kneeled for you?”

That gets a reaction.

Longing flashes across Geno’s face, clear and sharp; but a split-second later, Geno’s jaw juts out stubbornly. He says, shaking his head, “I tell you, Sid, I’m not put you on your knees, not _ever_ —”

“This isn’t you putting me on my knees,” Sid counters. “You’re not _making_ me – I’m offering. I want to help, Geno.” _And you need it. I can tell that you need it_ , he thinks, but he keeps that behind his lips – if Geno’s going to do him the courtesy of letting him decide for himself what he needs, he can do the same for Geno.

Geno’s face twists up with shame. “I’m dom,” he says wretchedly, “is _my_ job help _you_ , give _you_ what you need – shouldn’t have to take care of me, Sid—”

“Yes, I should,” Sid insists. “We help _each other_ , G – we take care of each other. And yeah, mostly you take care of me, and I love that, and I think you do, too—but there are times you’re gonna need some care, too. And that’s okay. That’s _good_.”

They stand there in silence for a minute, Sid’s hand on Geno’s chest rising and falling with Geno’s breathing.

“I feel shitty,” Geno admits quietly, looking down. “But I know you feel shitty, too – we both play same game, both lose… I need be strong for you, not—”

“I think I feel less shitty than you,” Sid says bluntly. “It hurt, losing, but – I already worked out some of my feelings about that when I took Flower home. And I got the gold medal this year, so… my year was pretty good already.”

Geno looks dubious. “Okay, Sid…”

“And you are strong,” Sid says fiercely. “It’s not weak to need help. It’s not weak to want somebody to take care of you. Unless you—unless you think that I’m weak…” It occurs to him suddenly, with a sick feeling, that maybe that _is_ the problem – that Geno sees needing help as a sub thing, and he doesn’t want to be like a sub, because subs are—

“You right,” Geno says, putting his fingertips on Sid’s lips. “You right.” He smiles tiredly. “I say before, don’t know how I’m so lucky: not just most beautiful sub, not just most sweet… Most smart, too. So lucky.” He kisses Sid, closed-mouthed and grateful. Against Sid’s lips, he murmurs, “Yes, Sid. I want you kneel for me.”

“Then put me where you want me,” Sid murmurs back.

So Geno does. He sinks into the one chair in the room—a big, puffy armchair not unlike the one in Sid’s bedroom back home—and beckons Sid over, then pulls and pushes and nudges Sid until he’s on his knees facing Geno, with his head tipped sideways to rest on Geno’s thigh. When he has Sid arranged how he wants, Geno lets out a big sigh and cups one hand around the back of Sid’s neck. “Close eyes,” he says quietly, and Sid does.

Kneeling doesn’t do much to make Sid feel clearer or lighter. He was telling the truth when he said that he was already doing pretty much okay. But he finds it powerfully satisfying nonetheless, for the reasons he told Geno about earlier. He loves offering himself up to Geno, and here he has a chance to do it in a way that will give Geno some of what Geno’s dominance gives Sid all the time: strength, support, and a safe harbor in which to heal. On his knees for Geno, he can say without words, _You are worthy and good: worthy of my submission, and my obedience. Worthy of my trust, and my vulnerability._

Eventually, Geno lets out another long sigh, and lifts his hand to stroke Sid’s hair back from his forehead. “Hi, Sid,” he says.

“Hi, Geno,” Sid replies.

“Can open eyes.”

Sid’s eyes flutter open and he blinks a few times, adjusting to the light. When he looks up at Geno, he can see that the tension in Geno’s shoulders has eased, and his eyes don’t look so distant anymore. Sid smiles and hides his face in Geno’s thigh, trying not to glow too obviously – but it feels really good to know that he made Geno better with his submission.

Geno tugs Sid up into his lap and gathers Sid’s hands in his own. “You honor me with your submission,” he says solemnly, kissing each of Sid’s wrists in turn.

“It was my honor to offer it,” Sid replies, meaning it with all his heart.

As they stand up, Geno catches sight of the suitcase on the bed and groans. “I’m shithead,” he berates himself. “I don’t think – you come in, see me pack like I want to leave you—”

“I figured out that it was just your routine,” Sid says, shaking his head. “It’s okay, G – you weren’t yourself.”

“Still.” Geno reels Sid in for an apologetic kiss. “Shouldn’t do. I’m not want to leave you. Not, not, not.”

“Me neither,” Sid whispers hoarsely.

“Stay tonight?” Geno asks. “Just for sleep?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “That sounds really good.”

As they get ready for bed, Geno says, contemplative, “Maybe I fold you up in suitcase, take you with me. Is good plan, yes?”

“It doesn’t sound very comfortable…” Sid says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Come on, Sid – fold you up, zip you up, is bondage, yes?” Geno teases. “You like bondage!”

“Yeah, but if you zip me in a suitcase,” Sid points out, “you can’t touch me.”

“Mmm. Is problem, yes. Always so smart, Sid,” he praises, peppering Sid’s cheek with kisses until Sid laughs.

 

*

 

The next morning, as he dresses Sid in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Geno says, “Parents here with me, so two choice for you: one, sneak you out back door very quiet, or two, you have breakfast with Mama and Papa.”

“I’m not afraid of your parents,” Sid says.

“You say now,” Geno mutters, but his eyes are twinkling.

When Geno’s parents see Sid come into the kitchen with Geno, they burst into excited Russian and overwhelm Sid with hugs and cheek-kisses. Geno doesn’t translate it all, but he does tell Sid, when they’re sitting at the table, “Mama say I look a lot better today. She say you good for me.”

Sid can’t help the smile that spreads across his face – he probably looks like a total dork, but he doesn’t care.

There’s a little confusion when Geno’s mom tries to give Geno one plate and fork with enough food for both of them, but Geno must give her some kind of explanation that satisfies her, because she returns with another plate and fork for Sid. Geno shovels some of the mountain of food on his plate onto Sid’s, saying, “I tell her is not mean you not serious – is just food not part of your submission.”

“I’m serious,” Sid says to Geno’s mom; when Geno translates, she beams at him.

After breakfast, Geno takes him aside and says, “Russian Federation ask me play World Championships. If I go, I go tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” Sid repeats, voice cracking. That’s a lot sooner than he was expecting. But he can’t tell Geno not to represent his country – not when doing the same had brought Sid so much joy this year. “I—you should go,” he says, with difficulty. “I’ll miss you a lot, but it’s the right thing for you to go.”

Geno hugs him. “Gonna miss you, too,” he murmurs. “But we find things for do – calls, maybe, or text message.”

That helps – having plans to make. “I know you don’t like phone calls in English,” Sid starts, but Geno shakes his head.

“Is more easy talk to _you_ ,” he says, smiling. “You understand me good. But Skype is little bit more easy for me, if is okay for you…”

“Yeah, I Skype with my sister all the time,” Sid says, relieved. “So we can do that—”

“Skype scene?” Geno suggests in a sinfully low voice, nuzzling Sid’s cheek.

Sid blushes. “I’ll probably get really embarrassed at first,” he warns, “but… yeah. I think that would be… I’d like that.”

“Good, good.” Geno straightens up, looking suddenly chipper. “And I’m send you things,” he says happily. “Buy you presents, yes, good.”

“You know I have plenty of money, right?” Sid asks, amused.

Geno smirks. “Money, yes. But _taste_ …”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sid retorts, shoving at Geno’s chest and trying not to grin.

They have one more night before Geno leaves, so Sid invites Geno over to his place and gathers his courage to ask Geno for something he’s been wanting for a while.

“We can do whatever you want,” he says hurriedly, “and probably you have a plan, so this can be, like, just something to think about—”

“Sid.” Geno cups Sid’s chin and smiles. “Don’t need nervous. If you want, ask.”

Sid wets his lips with his tongue. “I—I want to ask you to spank me.”

Geno sucks in a breath. He sits down on the bed and says, “Okay, this I think we need talk about some.”

That doesn’t sound promising.

Sid rushes to say, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to—”

“I want,” Geno says firmly. “But I worry because I know hurt is something bad for you with other doms before, and I’m worry is bad for you with me, and I never want.”

Sid nods slowly. “It was.” Carefully, thinking as he speaks, he explains, “I think there’s some stuff that’s definitely safe for us to do. And if we start pushing out past that, at some point, we will run into the bad stuff, and that _is_ a little scary. But I think that’s not a reason to avoid doing _any_ kind of pain or impact, even the definitely okay stuff. I think it’s just a reason to… be careful. And I know you will be,” he stresses, joining Geno on the bed. “You’re always so careful with me.”

Geno nods, and takes Sid’s hand. “So, what is definitely okay stuff?”

Sid has thought about this pretty hard since that last, terrible scene with Shea, and what he’d arrived at is that it is definitely 100% okay for Geno to hit him with an open hand on his ass, thighs, and upper arms, if Geno binds him and praises him, and if Geno stops shortly after Sid starts crying. That’s the zone of for-sure green.

It feels incredibly awkward to say that to Geno, though. It’s the opposite of everything he’s been taught: he’s pretty much telling Geno, “You can only paint in blue, and only cows, and there have to be eight of them.” But Geno doesn’t seem weirded out or annoyed at all – his eyes stay warm and affectionate as Sid explains his limits, and he squeezes Sid’s hand in encouragement when it’s hard for Sid to go on.

“All okay,” Geno says softly when Sid is done. “Is good. I know is hard for you say all this, and I’m proud, Sid – proud you help me take care of you, proud you trust I’m listen and still want you.”

“I do trust you,” Sid says, taking in a full, deep breath for the first time since Geno arrived. “So… do you want to?”

“Yes,” Geno says, smiling wide. “I’m already get ideas,” he adds, his voice sinking low, sending shivers down Sid’s spine.

He strips Sid and binds his forearms together with thick, black rope, then sets him up on the bed on knees and elbows. “This _ass_ ,” he says admiringly, stroking the flat of his palm over its curves. “I’m think can’t look better, but now I think about all nice and pink, and I think maybe yes, look even better like this.”

Sid’s mouth falls open, and he pulls in air in thick gasps. His nerves had mostly faded as Geno wrapped the rope around his arms, and now it’s only anticipation and desire making his heart pound.

“And you want, yes. And I give,” Geno says sweetly. He lifts his hand off of Sid’s ass, and Sid holds his breath, expecting the impact—

But Geno laughs a little and says, “But not yet. I’m make you wait some. Is more ways for make this ass look most mine.”

Sid moans and rubs his face against the rope on his wrists, desperate for any sensation. “Please,” he begs, and Geno hums.

“Get you open, first,” he says. And then, with no more warning than that, he pulls Sid’s asscheeks apart and licks over his hole.

A high-pitched noise rips its way out of Sid’s throat. It’s not a complete surprise—Geno had asked if Sid was okay with rimming when they negotiated the scene—but some part of him hadn’t really believed Geno would do it. He’d been raised to believe that doms got pleasure from their subs’ bodies, not the other way around, and that it was selfish for a sub to expect a dom to pleasure him orally. But Geno seems hell-bent on proving those stereotypes wrong, and it takes Sid to pieces every time, adding a transgressive edge to an already overwhelming experience.

Geno works Sid thoroughly open with his tongue, stroking and massaging Sid’s asscheeks with his hands as he works, until every inch of skin feels sensitized. Then, when Sid is a dripping mess, Geno says quietly, “Here’s how you be good boy for me. Already get you pink here—” He rubs his thumb over Sid’s hole, now loose and tender. “—but gonna get you pink here, too.” He drags his fingers over Sid’s asscheeks. “And you gonna count for me. And if you keep count for every one, then I let you come on my cock. You gonna be good boy for me?”

“Yes, Geno,” Sid promises fervently. “I’ll be good. I won’t lose count, I promise.”

“I’m not make too easy for you,” Geno warns.

“I promise,” Sid says again, nearly bursting with joy at having a task to perform, a chance to show Geno that he can be good. He won’t let Geno down.

The first strike of Geno’s hand is a shock even though Sid has been waiting for it all night. It’s pretty light, which he appreciates; he forgot to mention that warming up would be a good idea, but Geno seems to have figured it out anyway. They come down fast in succession until Sid reaches “Five.” Then Geno pauses to lay a kiss on Sid’s left asscheek and say, “Good, Sid. Five is good. Color?”

Sid says immediately, “Green.”

Geno drops another kiss on Sid’s cheek. “Good. Okay, next five little harder.”

Sid nods, ready.

The next five _are_ harder – the surface sting recedes compared with the deeper impact. Sid knows if Geno keeps going that hard, he’ll bruise for sure tomorrow. He’s not sorry – he wants bruises, something to keep with him when Geno’s gone.

“You doing so good, Sid,” Geno praises after that, stroking the small of Sid’s back. “Looking like maybe you gonna get my cock, so… have to get you ready.” He slips one lubed finger into Sid’s hole, unlocking a blissful groan from Sid’s chest – then, with the tip of his finger resting on Sid’s prostate, he lays down another five strokes on Sid’s right asscheek. Each impact goes all the way through Sid, bumping Geno’s finger and making Sid cry out with pleasure. He barely makes it through the count without messing up, and a huge surge of adrenaline pours through him at his brush with failure. The adrenaline mixes with the pleasure and the pain to flood Sid’s mind and body, starting to erode the calm that Geno’s bondage built for him.

“G-Geno,” Sid starts, voice shaking, but Geno doesn’t even pause. He stuffs another finger inside of Sid, then starts spanking him again, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty—

And then he tears through Sid’s expectations by _not_ _stopping_ , going to twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three… It nearly throws Sid off, pumping even _more_ adrenaline into Sid’s system.

Every surface of Sid’s ass feels hot and tight, and Sid can’t spare any thought for that because it’s taking every ounce of concentration he has to manage “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…”

When he finally makes it to “ _Thirty_ ,” he’s sobbing, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes and every beat of his heart pounding to the rhythm of Geno’s hand striking his ass.

And then it’s over.

Geno stops, and for a moment, Sid’s stomach drops— _Did I mess up?_ he thinks, panicked. _Did I lose count?_ —but Geno is murmuring reassurance and praise, telling Sid that he was paying very close attention and Sid never lost count, never let him down. Telling Sid that he’s so proud of him, and he can’t wait to feel Sid come around his cock, just like he promised.

“Please,” Sid begs, “please,” feeling as if the ache in his ass and the steady pressure of Geno’s ropes around his forearms are the only things keeping him from drifting away like a scrap of paper in the wind. He’s feeling _so much_ , and it’s good, but it’s so hard, and he needs this, he needs to know that he’s done what he was supposed to do. He needs to know that he got it right.

He must have babbled some of that, because Geno murmurs as he climbs up on the bed and pulls Sid backward into his lap, “You do just right, Sid. You do perfect. Now you just let me take care of you. No more work for you, Sid. You let go now.”

Geno is all around Sid, wrapped tight – those same hands that pulled pain out of Sid’s body are now stroking him gently, possessively.

_Let go now_ , Sid hears again, and he obeys.

Freed from the need to _do_ and _think_ , Sid can just purely _feel_. He doesn’t have to fight the sensation anymore – not the heat flaring in his ass or the comfort of Geno’s chest pressed tight against his back; not the throbbing urgency in his cock or the inviting press of Geno’s own cock snugged up between Sid’s cheeks. He can be utterly present to all of it, and when he finally is, it carries him down into that sweet, still place in his head where everything is easy and right.

Geno is whispering, “My good boy,” into Sid’s ear, and his slicked-up cock is nudging at Sid’s hole, and Sid wants that so much – he wants Geno to find his pleasure in Sid’s body, and he wants to receive his own reward for obedience faithfully given. Every part of him, mind and body both, opens for Geno when he presses inside.

Geno gives Sid so much – he always does. The perfect slide of his cock, of course, and the rhythm of his hips… but the bruising grip of his hands, too, and the moans he buries in the soft skin behind Sid’s ear. Sid cherishes every clench of Geno’s fingers and every hitch in Geno’s breathing. They’re the proof of Geno’s pleasure and satisfaction that goes beyond words – they’re praise that Sid can feel on his skin.

“So good for me—should come, sweet boy,” Geno urges him, the words coming out in gasps. He curls a hand around Sid’s cock and begins to stroke. “I want. Want you come—when I’m in you…”

Sid cries out. He was already so close, _so_ close, and now he can feel it rising up like a wave—

His spine bows forward with the force of his climax as he spatters himself with come. Geno folds forward with him, and groans as Sid’s body clenches around him. He thrusts harder, his litany of praise dissolving into Russian, and his hips jerk one last time as he finds his pleasure, too.

Sid’s face is mashed up against the inside of his elbows, and Geno’s knee is digging into Sid’s right calf, but he doesn’t care – in fact, he barely even notices. His brain is somewhere else right now, swaddled in what feels like soft, puffy cotton. If there’s something he’s supposed to be doing, Geno will tell him. Until then, Sid’s just going to lie here in the softness and let Geno take care of things.

His mental presence is not required again until he’s tucked up against Geno’s chest, washed and hydrated and well-kissed. Geno is rubbing Sid’s forearms gently and telling Sid, “Rotate wrists for me.” So Sid does. “Good boy. And now squeeze fingers, make fist? Good boy. Elbows feel okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sid yawns.

“So cute,” Geno teases, bopping Sid on the nose with his finger.

Sid makes an inarticulate noise of protest and hides his face in Geno’s armpit.

Geno laughs. “Come out, Sid, can’t hide – need ask more questions.”

Sid sighs and props himself up on an elbow. “Wh’questions?” he asks.

Geno asks, “You have sharp pain anywhere – pain you don’t expect, pain more than just bruise?”

Sid takes stock of his body and says no.

“Good.” Geno nods. His lips press together a little, worried, and he asks, “You feel okay in head? All green for you?”

A big, silly smile stretches across Sid’s face. “So good,” he says, giddy. “I feel so good. Oh, Geno. You were so amazing.”

“Good. I’m happy, then,” Geno says with a broad smile of his own, and he leans up for a kiss. More solemnly, he says, “You amazing, too, Sid.” He takes Sid’s free arm and brings it to his mouth to kiss the inside of Sid’s wrist. “You honor me with your submission,” he says, with feeling. “Always. But tonight, I know is scary for you try this, and hard for you talk about limits with me, so mean extra special. And your submission so beautiful, Sid. So, so beautiful. Thank you for let me share.”

Sid blushes at the effusiveness of Geno’s praise. “It was my honor to offer it,” he says softly. “It was kind of scary, before – but I was never scared once the scene got started. I knew you wouldn’t go over the limits we talked about. So I didn’t have to worry about that – I could just think about pleasing you, and about taking what you gave me.” He shrugs. “That’s what makes me the happiest. So.”

Geno wraps his arms around Sid’s shoulders and drags him in for a hug. “Should never have to think about dom ignore limits,” he mutters into Sid’s hair. “Never, never.”

“With you, I don’t,” Sid says simply. He yawns again. “Fuck, sorry – I’m falling asleep.”

“Is okay,” Geno says, soothing. “Is normal, Sid.”

“I know, but I had…” Another yawn. “Stuff I wanted to talk about…”

“We talk tomorrow morning. Sleep now, Sid. You need.”

“’Kay,” Sid mumbles.

 

*

 

In the morning, Sid has time to dash down and toast some bagels before Geno wakes up – not because it’s part of his submission, but because he thinks sharing breakfast in bed would be fun.

Geno is very appreciative, and he seems to enjoy making a nest of pillows so that Sid can eat on his side rather than sitting on his still-tender ass.

(It actually doesn’t hurt that much—Sid tried sitting down when he was in the kitchen and it was fine—but he doesn’t want to rain on Geno’s parade.)

“So you want to talk about something last night, before sleep,” Geno prompts.

“Right.” Sid takes a deep breath and says, bracing himself, “We should have talked about this before, but, um… it’s okay with me if you scene with other subs when you’re in Russ—”

“Liar,” Geno interrupts, amused. “Think I don’t know? Is not okay, so I’m not. And not okay for me you scene with other doms, so is good. We same.”

“Okay,” Sid says, not bothering to hide his relief. “I… that’s better. Yeah.” He laughs a little and shoots Geno a rueful look. “I was trying so hard to be reasonable…”

“Fuck reasonable,” Geno says cheerfully. “Or… no, is good be reasonable, but…” He makes a sharp noise of frustration. “English worst, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I think I do,” Sid says.

When breakfast is over and Geno has cleared away the plates—and made a futile effort at brushing away the crumbs in the sheets—he kisses Sid for a long time, returning to Sid’s mouth every time they come apart. Eventually he straightens up and brushes his fingers over Sid’s cheek, eyes dark. “Have to go,” he says regretfully. “Have to help Mama and Papa with airport – they leave today also.”

Sid nods. When Geno climbs out of bed, Sid follows and wraps his arms around Geno, trying to memorize every inch of skin where their bodies touch. “I’m going to miss you a lot,” he says, throat tight.

“I’m miss you, too. But we talk, Skype.”

“Yeah,” Sid agrees, “that’s going to help a lot.” _But I’m still going to miss your body_ , he thinks. He doesn’t say it, because he knows it sounds shallow. But… _fuck_ , Sid is going to miss having Geno’s hands on him. He’s going to miss Geno’s smell, and the way he kisses, and the weight of his dick in Sid’s mouth.

It seems like no time at all before Geno’s standing at the door holding his bag, holding his arms out to Sid for one last hug. “Three months,” he whispers into Sid’s ear, “then I’m back. And we talk lots in summer, Skype, message – I’m think about you every day.”

Sid sort of—well, he doesn’t swoon, because he’s a grown-ass human being and he’s pretty sure that’s not a thing that people do in real life. But his knees do get briefly wobbly. “I’ll think of you every day, too,” he whispers back.

And then Geno’s gone.

“Fuck,” Sid says, blinking quickly. It’s really dry in here.

 

*

 

Geno is as good as his word – in addition to their weekly Skype dates, he texts Sid at least once a day when he sees something cute or funny that Sid would like, or just to say hello. He calls pretty often, too—sometimes for phone sex, but sometimes just to talk. He also, hilariously, does send Sid a stream of gifts throughout the summer: silk sheets, silk underwear, expensive chocolates, fancy French soap and shampoo…

“Pillow spray?” Sid says dubiously, holding up the bottle and trying not to laugh.

Unperturbed, Geno asks, “Smell good?”

Sid sprays it, and… “It does,” he admits.

“Then you put on pillow and help you sleep when I’m not there for hold you.”

And okay, that’s—that’s really sweet. Charmed, Sid says, “I will.”

Geno sends him other stuff, too – stuff that makes Sid blush. Stuff that he wants Sid to use when they scene. Sid can tell that Geno gets a special satisfaction from that: watching him get off using something that Geno picked out just for him.

That gives Sid an idea. About a month into the summer, at the beginning of their Skype date, he says shyly, “I jerked off last night wearing that blindfold you sent me. The really soft one. I liked it a lot.”

He’s expecting Geno’s eyes to go wide and dark as he imagines Sid using the blindfold that Geno chose for him – expecting Geno to smile—

But instead, Geno frowns and says, with obvious disapproval, “You jerk off, Sid? Without permission?”

Sid freezes. Even the air in his lungs feels like it’s gone cold, taking his breath away.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he berates himself. _How could you forget—and something so basic, too, so important…_ It’s not something that he and Geno have ever talked about, or something that he’s thought much about, since it only matters to subs in relationships. But it’s a super common piece of protocol, so it’s not like he didn’t _know_ about it. He just, for some reason, never thought of it applying to him… and now Geno’s disappointed in him. _He’s probably going to punish me_ , Sid realizes, and his stomach drops.

He opens his mouth to apologize, to beg for Geno’s forgiveness, but—

_But—Geno said he wasn’t going to expect me to do stuff just because I’m a sub, not without talking about it first. He said it was bad and dangerous to assume like that, and he promised me he wouldn’t._

_Maybe he didn’t mean it_ , Sid thinks, feeling lost and small. Or maybe Geno meant it, but not for stuff like this.

But he promised. He _promised_ he wouldn’t put that on Sid. And Sid feels like that should mean something.

The thought of contradicting Geno about his dominance or trying to talk his way out of being punished—two of the worst things a sub can do, according to what Sid’s been taught—makes Sid feel sick to his stomach. But… so does the thought of being punished if he hasn’t actually done anything wrong. He has to do _something_ – he just doesn’t know what.

Sid hears an echo of Ovechkin’s voice: _Communicate is not complain. You communicate with me, help me be better dom?_ And he remembers something that Geno said years ago, when they were talking about the NHL Awards: _When I stop and think, I can get it right. It’s when I don’t think, when I just react, that’s when I fuck up._ Maybe that’s what they both need in order to make this right: a chance to think.

As steadily as he can, Sid asks, “Did I need permission?” Asking a question – that’s got to be okay, right? That’s not complaining, or backtalk.

Geno’s frown deepens. “Of course need permission – your pleasure is mine, Sid, so…”

“Because I’m your sub.” Sid’s tone makes it a question. His stomach is churning.

“Yes, Sid—”

“So it’s just expected.”

“Y—”

The word dies in Geno’s mouth.

Sid can see the color drain from Geno’s cheeks for a split-second—then Geno slaps his laptop screen down, ending the call.

_Shit_ , Sid thinks, blinking with surprise. He sits on the bed, and tries to decide whether or not he’s relieved. Without knowing for sure what made Geno hang up, it’s hard for him to know _what_ to feel.

His phone buzzes on the bedside table, and Sid grabs it. “Geno?”

“Hi, Sid.” Geno’s voice is small and scratchy.

“Are you okay?”

Geno laughs – there’s an edge of hysteria to it. “You ask _I’m_ okay?”

“Well, I—”

“I scare you,” Geno says, low, “I know for sure, and then I fucking end call like asshole, maybe make you think I’m mad—”

Sid protests, “I didn’t think you were mad.” He was _pretty_ sure, anyway. And it’s not like Geno left him hanging for long before calling back. Which raises a question in Sid’s mind: “Why didn’t you call back on Skype?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone, and then Geno mumbles, “I don’t want you see me.” The shame in his voice is obvious.

“Oh, Geno,” Sid says, with all the warmth he can put into the words, which is a lot. “Geno, I always want to see you. Come on.” He’s glad that Geno realized he made a mistake, for sure. But Sid never wanted him to feel ashamed – he just wanted them to talk. And the best way to do that is face-to-face, or as close as they can get from thousands of miles apart.

When the Skype call connects, Geno’s face is still pale, and his hair is sticking up in parts like he’s been clenching it between his fingers.

“So you—you told me that you—that you didn’t expect me to do things a certain way just because I’m your sub,” Sid starts.

Geno nods. “And I _mean_ ,” he says, quietly. “When I say, I think is true. I think I’m… fix. Fix everything in head to be like how I want. But is not this easy. I see now.”

Fixing the inside of your own head—or _thinking_ you’ve fixed it, only to find out you weren’t quite there—yeah, Sid knows a little bit about that. He can sympathize.

Geno heaves a sigh and continues. “Sometimes, I guess, I’m expect, and not even know. Like tonight. I’m learn good things from Mama and Papa, but I’m learn bad things, too, from other place, and sometimes I’m forget think, just… react, and do wrong.”

There’s a small, scared, petty part of Sid that wants to make Geno feel really bad about it, so he won’t ever do it again… but it’s obvious that Geno already feels plenty fucking bad. And anyway, Sid knows better. He, of all people, knows how hard it is to free yourself from the bullshit parts of your dynamic programming.

He tells Geno that, and Geno nods, although he still doesn’t look happy. “I think I’m be better,” he says quietly, looking down. “Ever since I see you so, so sad with Flower, so, so hurt, talk about how doms make you feel—” He makes a gesture like he’s crushing something between his hands, and Sid realizes he’s talking about the night of Sid’s breakdown in the parking garage. “Show me something I’m not know before, not think about a lot. After that, I work for be better,” he says, wearing an expression of determination not too different from the one he wears before a playoff game. “For not do things make subs feel this way. Ask Papa and Mama, and Ksenia, and my friend Max, what I can do for this. Try always to listen to sub, and most to Sid – watch Sid, see what make Sid sad and try to think why, find—um, patter?”

“Pattern?” Sid suggests. He’s fascinated by this glimpse inside Geno’s mind and Geno’s actions.

Geno nods. “Yes, pattern.”

He’s silent for a second; the determination fades out of his face, and the shame creeps back in.

“I think I’m be best for Sid, if Sid let me,” he says quietly, hanging his head. “But not best tonight. Sorry, Sid.”

“Hey,” Sid says, equally quietly, “nobody is at their best every day. Everybody makes mistakes.”

Geno hunches his shoulders – he doesn’t look at Sid. “Almost punish you for break rule I’m not even tell you.”

“Almost,” Sid agrees. “But you didn’t. Instead, we talked about it. That’s good, right?”

“Is good, yes. Thank you for make talk, Sid – for help me.” Geno looks at the camera wistfully. “Wish I can hug you now.”

“I wish you could, too,” Sid says, voice thick. He’s basically wished that all summer – but especially now.

Regretfully, Geno says, “I think we move Skype scene date for tomorrow. Not in good place right now.”

Sid nods. “Same.”

Geno bites his lip. Speaking very softly, like he’s not sure it’s his place to say anything about it, he tells Sid, “Make me happy you like my blindfold. Make me happy you wear for jerk off.”

“Thank you, Geno.” Sid takes a moment to enjoy the warmth of knowing that Geno is pleased. “Maybe we can talk about the asking permission thing later, too?” He doesn’t love the idea of Geno telling him when he can and can’t jerk off—he’s never liked the thought of being dependent on a dom for his basic needs, and that includes sexually—but he has a _lot_ of enthusiasm for Geno telling him _how_ he should jerk off, so hopefully they can get to some sort of compromise there.

“Yes, good.” Geno smiles at Sid, and Sid smiles back.

After a minute, Geno kisses his fingertips and presses them to the laptop screen. “Good night,” he says, still smiling, even though it’s the afternoon for Sid.

“Good night,” Sid whispers back.

 

*

 

He and Geno actually manage to scene a lot that summer, even over the distance. Sid had worried that, since his submission craves touch so much, he wouldn’t get a lot out of Skype or phone scenes, but it turns out that he was right: having Geno tell him exactly how to touch _himself_ is right up Sid’s alley. The lack of touch makes aftercare harder, though, so Geno is careful to stay in the extra-safe zone with Sid: keeping scenes short so he doesn’t spend a long time in subspace and then need a lot of help to come up, and avoiding things that would require more intensive aftercare, like pain or very difficult orders.

About two months into the summer, Geno starts a scene by telling Sid to get a belt out of his dresser, and Sid goes rigid, his mind swimming with shock and indecision. _He doesn’t want to hurt you with it_ , his rational mind tells him. _He probably wants you to use it as a restraint. That’s totally common and normal and you should be fine with it. You_ like _bondage!_

But the less-rational part of Sid is _not_ fine with it. _I do not want that belt anywhere fucking near me in a scene_ , it says.

Sid stares at the laptop screen, frozen, helplessly aware that every second that ticks by is a second that he’s ignoring an order that Geno gave him. Should he use his safeword? _But this is such a dumb thing to use it for_ , he thinks, _safewords are for big-deal stuff, stuff that hurts_ —

But he told Geno that he wouldn’t let Geno do something that was bad, something that would make Sid feel sick – he _promised_ that—

“Sid,” Geno says sharply.

Sid cringes. _He’s going to punish me, I just fucking_ ignored _his orders—_

Geno asks, “Sid, what is problem with belt?” His voice is firm, but by some miracle, he doesn’t sound angry.

Sid pulls himself together enough to answer. “There was a scene I did, with a belt, and it was—it was bad. So I was thinking about that. I’m sorry.” He’s careful not to go into any detail – he knows that doms don’t like hearing about their subs doing stuff with other doms.

But Geno nods, and then, totally contrary to Sid’s expectations, says, “Tell me about scene with belt. Tell _everything_ , okay, Sid?”

So Sid tells Geno about his very first scene, the one at the Olympics with Shea. And then he tells Geno about the scene with the dom from the bar, and the next scene with Shea—the good one—and the final scene with Shea and its aftermath.

It’s excruciating. Over and over again, Sid winces as the words leave his mouth. Why would Geno want a sub who lied during negotiation, lied during scenes, lied during _aftercare_ , failed to use his safeword when he should have, and once fucked up so bad that he made a dom safeword just to get rid of him?

But when it’s over, Geno doesn’t look disgusted or disappointed – just sad and worried. “I don’t know, before,” he says quietly, “how hard for you is safeword. And I’m not know how new – first scene for you ever is just… four months before now?” He shakes his head. “I’m be more careful with you if I know,” he says, sounding upset with himself.

“I don’t think you could be,” Sid says, in a shaky voice.

Geno makes a low, sharp sound, down in his throat, and reaches out to touch the screen. “My sweet Sid,” he says, so sincere that Sid’s fears crumble. In spite of all that, Geno still wants him. It’s an incredible relief.

 

*

 

Talking about all that stuff with Geno was really hard. But realizing how much Sid had gotten wrong back then makes him think. Specifically, it makes him think there’s somebody else he really should have talked to about that stuff. Hopefully it’s not too late.

_Are you going to be in Toronto at all this summer?_ Sid texts Shea. _I’d really like to talk. In person._

Shea texts back right away. _Next weekend?_ and _I’d like that, too._

Sid doesn’t throw his money around a lot, but in the interest of privacy, he’ll do it when he needs to. In this case, that means a last-minute reservation for a swanky hotel suite with a big, sunny balcony on a high floor – somewhere they can talk without being seen or overheard.

“Nice,” Shea says approvingly when he sees the setup. He sits across from Sid at the table on the balcony and takes off his sunglasses. “So. What’s up?”

Sid takes a steadying breath, and looks Shea in the eyes. “I wanted to apologize.”

Shea cracks a smile. “What a coincidence – me, too.”

Sid stares at him, thrown. “You don’t have anything to apologize for—”

Shea grimaces and says, “I talked some of this through with my sister—all anonymous, obviously—and when I told her that a brand-new sub who’d never scened before told me that he had no preferences and no limits, she shouted, ‘You _believed_ him?!’ and kicked me out of the house.” At the appalled look on Sid’s face, Shea laughs and says, “She let me back in a couple minutes later, but. Point made.”

This is not going at all how Sid planned. “I lied to you,” he insists.

Shea nods and says, “Yeah. I’m going to be honest – that messed me up. I kept thinking, was it something about _me_ that made you feel like you couldn’t say no? Something I said or did—”

“Oh, fuck— _no_ ,” Sid responds, horrified. “I’m really sorry, Shea – it’s the opposite, the total opposite. You were so kind and encouraging and never pressured me. It’s… all this other stuff that I absorbed from other places that made me feel like I shouldn’t… talk about limits, or use my safeword, or ask for things. _Not_ you.”

Shea blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair. Quietly, he says, “Yeah, I talked about that with my sister, too – the stuff that gets thrown at subs from—from fucking everywhere, messing with your heads—” Shea looks down at the table. Even more quietly, he says, “I never really paid attention to that kind of stuff before. I didn’t think it had anything to do with me.”

Sid doesn’t know what to say to that.

Shea looks up and asks him, “Can you tell me… what was going on in your head? Like, from the beginning? Because I just…”

“Yeah. I think that would be good.”

So Sid tells the whole story, for the second time in a week. Shea jumps in with his own perspective, or with questions. And when they’re done, when they’ve hashed out each scene, each missed opportunity and rushed negotiation—and the good parts, too, that still make Sid smile and blush—Sid looks across the table at Shea and sees his own relief reflected back at him.

“We both fucked up,” Shea says, without rancor. “But it sounds like you learned from it. Like you’re doing better now.”

“I am,” Sid replies, feeling a hundred pounds lighter. But… “What about you?” he asks, concerned.

Shea sits back in his chair. “Before, I couldn’t learn much from it,” he says matter-of-factly. “Because I didn’t really know what had happened. But now…” He shrugs, and gives Sid a half-smile. “Now I know where to start, at least.”

Sid bites his lip. “I’m sorry it took me so long to reach out.” _I should have called Shea right away afterward_ , he thinks, but when he tries to imagine how that conversation would have gone, he has doubts. It wouldn’t have been like the conversation they had today – back then, he still had too many messed-up ideas about what counted as good submission to even really understand where he went wrong. It’s only by working through a lot of this stuff with Geno that he’s come to understand where he strayed, and why.

“You had your own shit to deal with,” Shea responds, echoing Sid’s thoughts. “I’m glad you reached out now, though.”

“Me, too,” Sid says.

They part with a hug, and a promise to get drinks the next time they’re in the same city.

When Sid tells Geno about it on the phone that night, Geno tells Sid that he’s proud, that he thinks Sid was really brave. “You do right thing, Sid,” Geno says softly. “Right thing for both.”

“I try,” Sid says, staring out his bedroom window and wishing he had Geno’s hand to hold. “I always try.”

“Is what make you my Sid,” Geno tells him, and those words fit themselves into the narrow space between two of Sid’s ribs, there for him to feel every time he breathes.

 

*

The next time they Skype, Geno asks, a little tentatively, “Sid, you have time for try something?”

“Sure,” Sid says, intrigued.

Geno explains, “I remember you talk before about how is hard for you sometimes set limits, use safeword, so I think maybe we have practice.”

“Practice?” Sid’s not sure he likes the sound of that. He doesn’t want Geno to do stuff to him in the first place that would make him safeword, even if Geno stops right away.

Geno must see the trepidation on Sid’s face, because he shakes his head right away and says, “I’m not _do_ , Sid, no, no. I’m just _say_ I’m do things, and then you tell me color, like I say, ‘I give lots of kisses,’ and you say, ‘Green.’”

“Oh!” Sid says, relieved. That sounds a lot better. “I… sure. We can try that.”

The two of them lock eyes over the miles between them, and Sid can see that Geno looks as nervous as Sid feels. Sid nods, trying to convey encouragement, and Geno nods back and clears his throat. He says, “I’m tie your legs with rope, Sid.”

“Green,” Sid says, with confidence.

“Good!” Geno rubs his hands over his thighs. Next, he says, “I’m put rope around your neck.”

“Red,” Sid says immediately. “That’s not safe.”

“Very good! So good,” Geno says warmly. “Now: I’m spank your ass with hand.”

“Green,” Sid says, shivering with remembered pleasure as he thinks about the last scene they did before Geno left.

“Good boy,” Geno praises. “Now I say I’m hit you with cane.”

Sid’s mind immediately flashes to the scene with Shea, and he says instinctively, “No.” Then, flustered, he corrects, “Um, sorry, I mean red.”

“You do good, Sid,” Geno says soothingly. He thinks for a minute. “Okay. Now I’m cut you with razor.”

The switch from the pattern of green-red-green-red puts Sid off balance for a second, but he gets to “Red” pretty quickly.

“Good boy. Now I’m… tell you call me ‘Papa,’” Geno says.

Sid hesitates. This one’s harder – it’s just a word, it’s not like it would be _hurting_ him… but it would make him feel bad – really bad. Like… throwing-up bad. And anyway, he tells himself forcefully, not all limits have to be about physical pain. “Red,” he says eventually.

“Very good boy!” Geno exclaims. “Very proud. And when you say ‘red,’” he adds, “you protect _me_ also, because age play is hard limit for me, too.”

“Oh,” Sid says, surprised but pleased. “Awesome.”

It hadn’t occurred to him that using his safeword could protect Geno, too, if a scene started to venture into territory that’s out of bounds for both of them. He likes that thought; part of his discomfort with using his safeword is the nagging feeling that it’s _selfish_ , somehow, and so thinking of it as protecting Geno, too, really helps.

“Now, I’m tell you be still for me – what’s color for that?”

That one’s easy. “Green.”

“Good boy.” Geno nods. Then he raises an eyebrow and says, “Last one – I’m piss on you, Sid.”

That one stumps Sid for a second, but eventually he concludes, “Yellow. Because that’s a maybe for me, and we haven’t talked about it yet.”

Geno actually bursts into applause, which is kind of mortifying but also adorable. “Yes, very good answer!” he cheers. “That one is little bit hard, but I know you can handle.”

Sid blushes. He confesses, “It’s… it’s a lot easier like this, when it’s just… hypothetical.” At Geno’s look of incomprehension, Sid explains, “Not real. Not… in the moment. In the middle of a scene, when I know it’s something you really want right then, I might… I might not do as well.” He looks at the ground.

“Is okay, Sid.” When he chances a look at the screen, Geno is smiling at him, eyes soft. “Practice is not game, for sure. But is not mean practice not help.”

“That’s true,” Sid agrees, heartened.

Geno sighs. “Wish I can kiss you, Sid.” He touches his lips.

“One month,” Sid says wistfully.

Geno echoes, “One month.” He smiles, a little bit sly. “What I’m do with you when I touch you again, hmm?”

“Whatever you want,” Sid says, shyly. He feels a stab of guilt—still—when he says it, because he knows he’s really saying _Whatever you want within limits_ , and it’s hard to believe that that doesn’t… cramp Geno’s style, at least a little. But Sid believes, almost in spite of himself, that “whatever Geno wants” _includes_ Sid’s limits, because one of the things Geno wants is for Sid to _have_ limits. He wants the painting, not the canvas. He wants a person he can do things with, not an object he can do things to.

 

*

 

Sid thinks about that, long after his Skype session with Geno is over. _A person he can do things with, not an object he can do things to_. Geno talks like… like that’s what all doms want. That a dom would have to be crazy to want a sub who’s utterly moldable to the dom’s tastes. But Sid’s pretty sure that’s… well, he doesn’t want to call Geno naïve. That’s not nice. But he’s dealt with enough well-meaning doms in his life to suspect that the world is chock-full of doms who would rather have an object than a person. That Geno is different, in that way. Special.

And somehow, he wants Sid: a sub with no domestic inclinations or talents, with practically zero submissive sexual experience, and with a job that many people think a sub has no business having—a job, moreover, that puts him in a position of authority over Geno.

And Sid… Sid wants him, too. Not more than anything – that’s a sweet, romantic thought to have, but realistically, he wouldn’t pick Geno or anybody in the world over hockey, and it wouldn’t be healthy if he did. But he wants Geno more than any _one_ , and more than he ever dreamed he could want another person. And the thing is, it’s not just because of Geno’s specialness in wanting a sub with personality and limits. Sid needs that, couldn’t have a happy relationship without it, but his love for Geno— _and let’s not kid around, this is love we’re talking about_ , he thinks, _not just want_ —isn’t anything so rational as that. He loves Geno for his mix of shameless cockiness and sweet shyness – for his kind eyes and his strong hands. For his hockey, undeniably. For how fucking hard he works, every day, to be a good person.

_So what are you afraid of?_ Sid thinks. _You told Flower you loved Geno months ago – why haven’t you said it to Geno? Why not give him a ring the minute he sets foot back in Pittsburgh? Hell, why not fucking mail it to him in Russia?_

Sid whispers, “I’m afraid.” And that _is_ the answer. He’s afraid. He’s afraid of what will happen to his relationship with Geno—and to him—when it’s thrust under the cold glance of the rest of the world.

He’s built his career—his fucking _life_ —on burying his submission in a box in the backyard and never letting the wider world see it. Because if they don’t see it, then maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe he’s not really a sub at all.

And it _has_ worked. It’s worked for years. His entire public persona is built on it – on reducing his dynamic to a technicality, a checked box on a form. He has no fucking clue who he’ll be if it becomes more than that. But he knows the reaction will be merciless.

When he wasn’t really a sub, it didn’t matter that he didn’t act the way a sub was supposed to act. Well, okay, it actually mattered to a lot of people, but not as much as it would have. _That’s Sid, he’s just different. He’s a sub, but only officially, so it’s okay that he bosses doms around. It’s okay that he orders for himself in restaurants and sits on the sofa to play Call of Duty instead of kneeling on the floor_.

If people knew about him and Geno—if there was suddenly a dom for them to point to as proof of Sid’s submission—all of that would be at risk. Worse, Geno would become a cudgel for people to use to beat Sid back into line. _It’s one thing if he wants to behave that way when the only person it reflects on is himself, but now he’s shaming his dom. What kind of dom lets his sub order his own food? What kind of dom lets his sub interrupt other doms in conversation, or look them in the eye?_

As bad as it is now—and yeah, it’s gotten a lot better, but it’s still really fucking bad—it would be ten times worse if he had a dom. And the fact that Geno’s a teammate? Sid doesn’t know how that would play out, but it’s sure as hell not going to help.

So yeah, Sid is terrified of that. He thinks he has good reason.

But the fear that exposing their relationship will change how _other people_ treat him is, in some ways, the easy fear. It’s just an intensification of the shit he’s taken for his whole adult life. He can plan for it, come up with strategies to get around at least some parts of it.

He doesn’t at all know how to deal with the other fear: the fear that exposing their relationship to the public eye will change the way _Geno_ treats him. There are a lot of public aspects of submission that they’ve never had to talk about, because their relationship was secret – Sid couldn’t do those things even if he wanted to. Once that impediment is removed, those things will be on the table, and he doesn’t know how Geno will react.

And even that scares him less than the thought that the things they _have_ talked about will start to change. Geno is okay not hand-feeding Sid in the privacy of his own home… but would he still be okay with it when they’re out at a restaurant, or at team breakfast? Geno said he’d never tell Sid to kneel, but will he feel the same when they’re at a party and everyone else’s sub is on the floor? Peer pressure is a powerful thing, and language issues aside, Geno’s always fit in easily with the team. He’s never been asked to wave the flag against conformity. It’s not a comfortable job – Sid would know.

“I’m scared,” Sid whispers again, pressing his palms against his face. “I’m scared.”

This isn’t a decision he can consult Geno on. Geno’s going to say that nothing will change between them. Geno will say that he’ll protect Sid from the escalated viciousness. Geno will say it’s Sid’s choice how—or if—he wants to demonstrate his submission in public. But like they talked about earlier, a practice is not a game. You never know how you’ll react in the decisive moment until it comes.

“I love him,” Sid says aloud. “Fuck, fuck, why is this so hard?”

_I need someone_ , he thinks. He can’t ask Geno about this. But that doesn’t mean that there’s no one he can ask.

Sid gets in his car and drives down to his parents’ house. It’s getting dark out – Sid’s been thinking for a long time. When he gets to the house, he waves hello to his mom and goes to Taylor’s room.

When she looks up and sees him in the doorway, she smiles. “Hey, Squid. What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you?” he asks. “It’s about something serious.”

Taylor nods, all business. “Let’s go to the serious talking chair.”

With Sid ensconced in his big, plush chair under the window in his old bedroom, and Taylor perched on one of the chair’s big arms, Sid says, “I’m… I’m thinking of giving Geno a dom’s ring. Making that commitment.”

Softly, Taylor says, “That’s awesome, Sid. But you’re not making an awesome face, so I’m guessing there’s more to it.”

“Yeah.” Sid blows out a breath. “If I give him a ring – he’ll only take it if we make our relationship public. And that’s totally reasonable, but… I’m scared, Taylor. I’m really fucking scared.”

She tucks her feet under his thigh. “What of?”

Sid’s eyes sting. “Everything,” he whispers. “But mostly that… it’ll change. We’ll change. Our relationship. That he’ll want things to be different, once people know I’m his sub. That what we have now won’t be enough for him, then.”

Taylor thinks about that. She doesn’t rush – she looks into the distance for several minutes, eyes narrowed a little as she works it through. Sid doesn’t mind waiting; it was surprisingly therapeutic just to say it out loud to another person. He already feels better.

Slowly, Taylor says, “We were sitting in this chair the night I announced my dynamic. I was really scared, too, then. I was scared that things were going to change with you and me. That we were going to stop being Taylor and Sid, and start being… some dom sister and her sub brother. But we didn’t. We never, never did, and we never will.”

“Taylor…” Sid’s eyes are well beyond stinging, now.

She turns to look him in the face. “It’s because we love each other,” she says quietly. “Love is… really strong, I think. It can… absorb change, I guess, without changing itself. It doesn’t, always. It’s not like people who love you never let you down. But we turned out okay, didn’t we?”

“We turned out so much fucking better than okay,” Sid says fervently, his vision blurry with tears, and he pulls Taylor into a fierce hug. “You’re still the best person,” he whispers. “The absolute best.”

“No, you are.” Taylor’s voice sounds suspiciously clogged.

Sid mumbles back, “No, _you_ are.”

“No, _you_ are…” Taylor laughs, wetly. “That’s all the wisdom I’ve got, Sid.”

“It’s some pretty awesome wisdom,” Sid says, and he squeezes her shoulders one last time before he lets go.

On his way out the door, Sid meets his dad coming in from the yard. Sid must look like kind of a mess, because his dad asks, right away, “You okay, kiddo?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Sid says, and he thinks he really is. He has an answer, and a plan. “I—I’d like to talk to you and Mom about something, though. Maybe tomorrow, before dinner?”

“Sure, Sid. That sounds good.” His dad reels him in for a hug, and Sid sighs, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. “Anything you need, kiddo.”

Sid whispers, “Thanks, Dad.”

 

*

 

When Sid arrives at his parents’ house the next day, he can tell from the minute he walks in the door that his mom is expecting him to be stressed – the smell of corned beef, Sid’s childhood comfort food, is wafting through the house.

His parents are both in the kitchen, which is as good a place as any to have this conversation, as far as Sid is concerned. He takes a deep breath and says, “I wanted to tell you… I’m seeing somebody. It’s serious.”

“That’s wonderful, Sid!” his mom enthuses from over by the stove. “Come here, let me give you a hug—”

“Let him finish what he’s got to say, Trina,” his dad interrupts good-naturedly. “Go on, Sid.”

This is the harder part. “The person I’m seeing,” Sid begins, “it’s, um. Well, it’s… Geno. My teammate? Evgeni M—oh, this is stupid, you know who Geno is.”

“We do,” Sid’s dad says evenly.

Sid can’t read him at all. It’s nerve-wracking.

His dad continues, narrowing his eyes, “You said it’s serious… kiddo, how long has this been going on?”

“Since a little bit after the Olympics,” Sid says, wincing pre-emptively… and yeah, there’s the betrayed look from his mom. “And I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you,” he goes on, directing it mostly at her, “but I wanted… I wanted to be really sure. And I am really sure. I actually… I’m gonna give him a ring. When the season starts. If he wants it.”

For a minute, there’s silence. Then his dad says, sounding worried, “Are you going to get in trouble with the team over this, kiddo? With management?”

“I don’t know,” Sid says honestly. “But my teammates are loyal to me, so if management tried to take the C, I don’t think they would stand for it. And it’s—if I have to fight to have this, I’ll fight. Geno is worth it.”

After a shorter pause, his dad asks, “Does he treat you good?”

Sid smiles. “Yes, Dad.”

“Does he make you do stuff you don’t like?” his dad presses. “Stuff that makes you feel bad?”

“No, Dad. Never.”

“Does he talk about you disrespectfully in front of the team? Or anybody?”

“No, Dad!” Sid replies, half-laughing. “I told you, okay – he’s good to me.”

“Hmm.” His dad raises a skeptical eyebrow.

His mom coughs, delicately – indicating she has something to say without actually interrupting his dad. She’s always been really good at those kinds of submissive social graces.

She asks Sid, “How does it—how do you feel, when he touches you?”

Sid turns red. “I don’t think you two want to hear—”

“We do,” his dad says staunchly, rubbing his mom’s shoulder. “Even if it makes us a little uncomfortable, we want to know.”

Sid thinks about the question. In the end, the sexy stuff doesn’t really make the top of the list. “I feel good,” he says softly, eyes unfocused. “I feel safe. Protected. I feel loved, and… and precious. I feel like… when I’m with Geno I feel safe to be myself. Like I don’t have to pretend, or hide anything about myself.”

Sid hears a sniffle, and looks up. “Dad, are you…?”

“Damn allergies,” his dad says gruffly, reaching for a Kleenex.

Allergies, sure. Sid can’t help smiling. His mom catches the expression on his face and winks.

After blowing his nose, Sid’s dad says, “I’m happy for you, kiddo. I’m—so damn happy for you.” Then he clears his throat. “And if he stops treating you good, I’ll kick his ass.”

“Dad!” But Sid smiles again.

There’s one more thing he has to say before the conversation is over, though. “I’m, uh, not going to wear a collar,” he warns, shifting back and forth on his feet. “Geno’s okay with it. It’s still a serious relationship, I’m just… not going to wear a thing on my neck. I don’t want to.”

Both of his parents take a while to chew on that one – Sid’s mom rests her fingertips on her own collar, almost nervously, and Sid’s dad stares at it while he thinks. But eventually, his dad says, “Well, Sid, I can’t say that doesn’t sound a little weird to me… But if you and Geno—if that’s how the two of you want it, then I can’t see how it’s anybody else’s business.”

His mom nods, adding a soft, “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Sid says, surprised but pleased at their easy acceptance.

That night, he texts Geno, _I told my parents about us. They were really happy for me._

He adds, after a second, _They don’t think you got hit on the head_.

He’s not expecting an answer right away—it’s the wee hours of the morning in Moscow—but a few minutes later, he gets a bunch of happy parentheses and _so funny sid._ A second later, Geno follows up with, _proud_ , and a bunch more eyeless smilies _._

_Thank you_ , Sid replies, enjoying the burst of warmth that goes off under his breastbone every time Geno says he’s proud of Sid. He snuggles in under his covers and texts, _Now go to sleep, it’s super late there!_

Geno responds right away.

_my sid take so good care of me so cute_

_sleep now yes_

_dream about you ))))))_

“I’ll dream about you, too,” Sid murmurs, smiling as his eyes drift shut.

 

*

 

Sid gets back to Pittsburgh about a week before Geno is scheduled to return for training camp. He has dinner with the Lemieuxs, shoots promos for Root and the website, and does a shit ton of interviews.

“Not that I’m not thrilled,” Jen says, raising an eyebrow, “but is there a reason you’re suddenly so eager to talk to reporters?”

Sid thinks for a minute, then says, as matter-of-factly as he can, “Geno and I are dating, and I’m thinking about going public pretty soon. I figured if I give outlets their interviews now, I won’t have to do it later, after people know about Geno.” His hands are shaking, but he’s pretty proud that his voice stayed level through the whole thing.

Jen, to her credit, takes the announcement in stride. “Well,” she says, leaning back in her chair, “I can’t fault your strategy.” She smiles. “Or your taste.”

Sid blushes.

“Are you going to want to do a press conference, or…”

“Can I get back to you on that?” Sid asks – he doesn’t actually know what kind of “public” Geno wants to be.

“Take all the time you need,” says Jen. “I’ll start working some plans up.”

That same day, he pops down to Dana’s office.

When Dana sees Sid in the doorway, he nods. “Hey, Sid. What can I do for you?”

“You handle resizing for the alternate captain’s rings, right?” Sid asks. “Do you know what Geno’s ring size is?”

“Let me take a look.” Dana pulls out a binder from under his desk and writes down the number on a post-it note, which he gives to Sid. “There you go. Why do you need to kn—” Dana’s voice dies, and he stares at Sid, mouth hanging open.

Sid blushes. “Uh, for that. Yeah.” He waits for a response, but Dana just keeps staring, so Sid adds, “But it’s a surprise, so if you could not say—”

“Oh, for sure, for sure,” Dana says hurriedly. “And, uh… congrats, eh?” He gives Sid a small smile.

“Thanks, Dana.”

By the time Geno’s plane touches down in Pittsburgh, Sid has a ring in his pocket sized to Geno’s index finger. It’s simple but assertive, a thick platinum band with a pattern of swooping lines that reminded Sid of the lines that skaters carve into the ice. That was the easy part, really. Sid is good at logistics. He still has no fucking idea what he’s going to _say_.

_I’d like to thank Geno Malkin_ , he remembers. He drops his head into his hands and laughs. He could attempt eloquence, but honestly, he doesn’t think his choice of words is going to be the deciding factor – either Geno is ready for this step in their relationship, or he’s not. Sid’s only job is to convince him that _Sid_ is ready, and he has to hope that his sincerity will be enough to carry the day.

When Geno is finally there in front of him, though, all thought of any kind of speech flies out of Sid’s head. Geno looks totally wretched—exhausted, unwashed, stressed—but Sid’s never seen anything more wonderful. He launches himself at Geno, and Geno crushes Sid to his chest with all his strength.

“Oh, my Sid,” he murmurs—fuck, Sid can _feel_ him speaking again, he didn’t realize how much he’d missed that—before absolutely devouring Sid’s mouth with a kiss.

“I missed you so much,” he gasps into Geno’s mouth. “I missed your hands on me, I missed your mouth, I missed the whole fucking shape of you—”

“Sid, fuck, you feel best always in my arms—”

“I haven’t had a single mark of you on my skin all summer,” Sid says, and Geno’s eyes go dark in a split-second.

“I fix,” he growls, and then he’s taking off up the stairs, tugging Sid behind him.

An hour later, there are tear tracks on Sid’s face, bite marks all over Sid’s shoulders, and come smeared up and down his belly and thighs. It’s fucking magnificent.

“I think I keep you like this,” Geno murmurs, his eyes running up and down Sid’s body with sly satisfaction.

“Yes,” Sid says, too high on Geno’s touch to be anything but sincere. “Yes. Keep me.” He has enough executive function left to realize that the aftermath of a scene, when he’s all fuzzy and floaty, is not the right time to offer Geno the ring, but oh, he’s tempted.

In the end, they basically don’t leave Sid’s bed for two days, and they don’t leave the house for three. Sid hangs on to the ring, waiting for the right moment, the _perfect_ moment, until the third day, when Geno, sweetly attempting to be helpful, picks Sid’s jeans up off the floor and puts them in the washer and starts up a load of laundry.

“No!” Sid yelps, suddenly realizing that the ring was in the pocket of those jeans – he dives for the button to stop the washer and then rescues the jeans, breathing a sigh of relief when he finds the ring in the pocket, slightly damp but none the worse for wear.

“Sid?” Geno’s eyes are wide as saucers.

Sid freezes, caught – Geno can see the ring in his hand, and there’s only so many reasons he would have been carrying an unfamiliar ring around. This is miles away from the perfect moment that he had envisioned—they’re both wearing sweatpants, for fuck’s sake, standing in his tiny laundry room, and Sid’s holding a dripping pair of jeans in his other hand—but the cat is out of the bag.

So Sid sinks to his knees, trembling a little, and lays the ring flat on the back of his left hand before holding it up to offer it to Geno. This is how it was done in the old days: you offered the ring on the back of your hand, not in your palm, or your fingertips. If you held the ring in your palm, it was still in your control, you could still take it back. But if the ring lay on the back of your hand, it was up to the dom to take it or refuse it, and the sub couldn’t snatch it away. It meant that you’d made up your mind – that you were serious. And Sid is.

“So this is probably crazy,” Sid babbles, “and way too fast, but I know what I want, and what I want is… you. So this is… I want to offer you this, and it’s okay if you don’t want to accept it yet – I just wanted to make sure that you knew that I’m ready, that I’m all in—”

Geno touches Sid’s mouth, and Sid falls silent.

“ _Not_ crazy,” Geno says with feeling. “Or I’m crazy, too. But I want to make sure we, um… same page? Is how you say?”

Sid nods.

“I tell you before if I get ring, I’m want everybody know – not want secret anymore. You ready for that, Sid?” He looks so nervous – like he thinks Sid might change his mind, now that Geno’s reminded him.

So Sid says, “I am,” as strongly as he can. “I didn’t forget what you said, and I—it’s hard. It’s going to be hard. But I thought about it a lot, this summer, and I’m ready for people to know that you’re… really important to me.”

Geno joins Sid on the floor and pulls Sid toward him for a kiss. “Important to me, too,” he says softly, eyes wet.

He takes the ring from the back of Sid’s hand and slides it onto the first finger of his left hand – the space for serious romantic relationships, just one step short of marriage.

Sid looks at it there, shining on Geno’s finger, and he feels short of breath. This is a huge step, and it’s a sign that things are about to change, a lot. It’s scary. He can’t help that. But it feels good, too. _Keep me_ , he’d said. And now Geno will. That’s what the ring promises.

“I love you, Sid,” Geno says softly. “So much. So happy.”

“I love you, too,” Sid replies. “I’m… I’m really proud to be yours.” He folds forward into Geno’s arms and just breathes for a few minutes, trying to come to terms with the shape of what’s coming. Geno puts his hand on the back of Sid’s neck. It helps a lot.

When Sid sits up again, Geno asks, “You good?”

Sid takes a deep breath and nods.

Geno smiles, crinkling up the corners of his eyes, and suggests, “Then you let go of wet jeans, now, maybe.”

“Oh, fuck,” Sid says, mortified, laughing in spite of his embarrassment as Geno tugs the damp jeans out of Sid’s left hand and tosses them back in the washing machine. “You can’t ever tell anyone about that,” he pleads.

“No,” Geno says, with a warm, private smile. “Relationship not secret… but some things still we keep just for us.”

“That sounds perfect,” Sid says, smiling back.

On their way out of the laundry room, Sid remembers Jen’s question and asks, “So do you… want to have a press conference, or…”

Geno shakes his head. “No, I don’t need big deal – I think maybe I just… wear ring, and if people ask about ring, I say.” He shrugs.

“That works for me,” Sid says, relieved.

The team doesn’t notice until halfway through the preseason, which surprises Sid a little, since he knows from long experience that most of his teammates are nosy little shits. Still, the ring he gave Geno is very similar in size and shape to the alternate’s ring that Geno wears on the first finger of his right hand, so Sid guesses it kind of blends in. Plus, the more observant members of the group—Flower, Gonch, and Aggie—already know, and have the good sense to keep their mouths shut.

When the team _does_ notice, though, after a morning practice, the whole locker room basically grinds to a halt.

“G’s got a _ring_!”

“First finger, too, damn.”

“Geez, Geno, way to go from zero to sixty overnight.”

“Seriously,” Brooksie asks, “you went from no ring to serious relationship? Not to judge your life choices…”

“ _I’m_ judging your life choices,” Talbo chips in.

Geno shakes his head. “We date for more time,” he explains, “but this fall is when I get ring. Relationship private, you know?”

“So who’s the lucky sub?” asks Jordy.

Geno says, “Is Sid.”

A half-second of total silence greets this statement, broken by laughter that runs the range of raucous belly laughs to nervous chuckles paired with sidelong glances at Sid. The Quebecois contingent aren’t laughing at all, split between glaring at Geno and giving him confused looks, although Flower knows better. Most of the room is watching Sid anxiously out of the corners of their eyes, conveying _Is Sid going to go ballistic?_

Sid has, it’s true, zero tolerance for jokes about his dynamic – but this isn’t a joke.

He walks over to Geno’s stall, which makes the nervous looks intensify. But he offers Geno his wrist, and shivers when Geno clasps his hand around it, sending the room back into total shocked silence – none of them has ever seen Sid tolerate a dom’s hand around his arm.

“Ring is from Sid,” Geno says again, voice soft even though his face is glowing with obvious pride. “ _My_ Sid,” he adds, even softer, and Sid can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Geno lifts Sid’s wrist to his mouth and kisses the soft skin on the inner surface, then lets Sid go. Sid walks back to his stall, and something resembling the normal chaos of the room slowly resumes.

He hears Adams say to Geno, in a tone of voice that’s meant to make a question out of what is technically a statement, “You and Sid are in a serious relationship.”

“Yes,” Geno says, cheerful enough to make Sid grin.

“Like, first-finger-ring-serious.”

“Yes.”

No one is actually rude enough to ask Geno—or Sid—why Sid isn’t wearing a collar, but Sid can feel the heat of twenty pairs of eyes staring at his bare neck. When he’d imagined this moment, sick to his stomach, he’d expected to feel the weight of shame, and of judgment. Instead, he’s surprised to realize that right now, his heart is light and buoyant with all the fucks he absolutely doesn’t give.

Geno is so obviously, ridiculously proud that Sid is his, bare neck and all, that Sid can’t bring himself to care what anybody else thinks. The one and only time Sid had brought it up after the first time, Geno just smiled and said, “Give me more space for kisses,” and proceeded to prove his point by leaving hickeys all over Sid’s neck.

Later, he hears Talbo hiss to Geno, “How did you… I mean, Sid _. Sid._ Dude.”

Geno says modestly, “I just be amazing, and wait. Sid little bit slow, but he notice finally I’m best dom.”

Talbo is in the middle of some halfway-scathing chirp when Sid breezes by, says, “That’s basically how it went, yeah,” and walks away to the sound of Talbo sputtering and Geno crowing triumphantly.

 

*

 

The press finds out the very next day, in what Sid is choosing to believe is an astounding coincidence – he doesn’t like thinking that anyone on the team would have run to a reporter behind their backs. The pre-game clusters around Geno and Sid are much larger than usual, and the first question Geno gets is about the ring. Geno tells the truth—that the ring is from Sid, that Sid is his, that it’s a serious relationship—and then Jen jumps in with a warning that they won’t be taking any more questions about the players’ personal lives.

Sid can practically see the wheels turning in the reporters’ heads as they try to think of questions that about Sid and Geno’s relationship that could arguably relate to hockey.

One reporter, apparently a faster thinker than the others, asks, “Mr. Crosby, do you—how do you think your relationship with Mr. Malkin will strengthen your game, as a player?”

Sid blinks, confronted with a question he wasn’t remotely expecting. He’d been prepared to answer questions about whether he was resigning the captaincy, or how he was going to balance hockey with his domestic responsibilities, or why he was fucking up the locker room chemistry. It hadn’t occurred to him that the questions might be _positive_.

“Well, um,” he fumbles, “my relationship with Geno is about my personal life, not my hockey life—” Which is true, and which is the main theme he and Jen had planned to emphasize. “But, you know, any time you have a good relationship, a supportive relationship, whether that’s with family or friends or with a partner, that helps in every part of your life, for sure. So definitely Geno’s support means a lot to me.”

When he looks up, he can see a bunch of the reporters are… smiling? _What the fuck_ , he thinks, careful to keep his own face blank. The rest of the questions are softballs—or legitimate hockey questions—until Jen hustles the media out.

When she comes back, she sees the expression on his face and smiles. “It’s going to be so shitty,” she says quietly, just for his ears. “You weren’t wrong. But I think you may have underestimated how much people love a love story. It won’t be all bad, Sid. It really won’t.”

Sid holds those words close over the next couple of weeks, as the preseason ends and the regular season starts. It feels very much like there’s another shoe about to drop, and he just doesn’t know where it is. It could be on the team, where some of the doms have started looking to Geno for confirmation after Sid tells them to do something, which is messed up. It could be in the media, where the new-love glow is wearing off and the questions are devolving into the reductive shit that Sid expected all along. It could be on other teams, where Sid’s opponents haven’t quite figured out how to work Geno into their taunts yet.

What scares Sid the most is that it could be with Geno, even though Geno has been really good so far about keeping their relationship just the way it was before, as much as possible. Geno hasn’t made a single twitch toward taking over Sid’s eating, or curtailing Sid’s physical interactions with other teammates… but he hasn’t noticed or put a stop to the checking-for-confirmation thing, either, even though it’s not particularly subtle.

Sid doesn’t really know how to talk about it – this feeling like heavy clouds are looming overhead, and any minute, rain might start pouring down. When he mentions it to his mom, she just says, “Big change is really scary, Sid. It’s all right to be nervous. It’s all right to feel uncertain. You’ll find your rhythm.”

Sid hopes that’s true. He just doesn’t know at all what he wants that rhythm to look like. _I liked the rhythm I had before_ , he thinks. But it’s not reasonable to expect things to go on just like they did before. Is it?

 

*

 

Their home opener is against the Stars, and Sid’s stomach is fluttering in the lead-up to the game. In the preseason, he’s been playing mostly against fourth-liners and kids from juniors getting a tryout, when he’s been playing at all. The Stars are a big team, nasty, with Ribeiro, Sid’s least favorite opponent, on the roster. It’s not the way he would have chosen to start the season.

But you play the schedule you’re given. So Sid keeps his head down through all the extra pageantry and all the hype, and when it’s time, he does his special handshake with Geno and goes down the tunnel, mind utterly focused on what he’s here to do: getting the win.

It won’t come easy – that becomes clear pretty much right away. The Stars get their first goal less than two minutes in, which always gets Sid’s goat. And even though the Stars are playing hard, they’re playing disciplined, which keeps the Penguins from using their power play, which is the team’s greatest strength right now.

So they’re playing from behind, which Sid doesn’t love, and Flower is, frankly, looking a little shaky after that early goal. To make matters worse, Ribeiro has been all over Sid from minute one, running his mouth, and getting his stick in Sid’s hands and Sid’s skates. Sid’s been putting up with this shit basically since puberty, so he’s got a lot of practice at not letting it get to him. But it scares him more coming from Ribeiro—Sid hears things, and what he hears is that Ribeiro might mean what he’s saying more than most. Still, he’s got it handled.

Or he would, if Ribeiro would leave his fucking hands alone. It comes to a head on a goalmouth scramble, when Ribeiro winds up and takes a blatant swing at Sid’s gloves, baseball-style. If Sid hadn’t turned at the last second, getting the slash on his thigh instead, he’d have had a couple broken fingers. No call from the ref, of course, even though the play’s blown dead.

“Cut it the fuck out,” Sid snaps at Ribeiro, sick of his shit.

But Ribeiro grabs Sid’s arm and yanks him close, close enough that Sid can feel his breath, and murmurs, “Come down to my stall after the game, bitch – I’ll give you fifty of those. I’ll make you _scream_.”

Sid’s breath catches, and he pulls free from Ribeiro’s grip, fear giving him extra force. _Yeah, he definitely meant that_ , Sid thinks, shaken. His skin is crawling. _Fuck. Fuck. I’m really glad I’m walking out of the arena with Geno after the game._

He skates back to the bench as fast as he can without looking like he’s running away, and he keeps his head down—so when the entire arena gasps, he doesn’t understand why. It’s not until two whistles later, not until after Geno has been shuffled off to the penalty box, jawing all the way, that he sees the replay on the Jumbotron: Geno blatantly slew-footing Ribeiro right in front of the net… and right in front of the fucking linesman, what the _fuck_?! He’s lucky—the whole team is fucking lucky—that he only got called for tripping, not the obvious slew-foot he really committed. And once Sid _has_ seen it, it only gets worse… because then he gets to sit on the bench for a penalty kill that only lasts 80 seconds because fucking _Ribeiro_ gets one past Flower while Geno’s in the box.

By the time Geno is skating back to the bench, Sid is fucking _steaming_ mad. His line is on, and he keeps his mouth shut as he hops over the boards, but when his shift is over, and Geno’s next shift is over, and the rage that’s been boiling inside of Sid for almost five minutes has a place to go, he can’t hold it in any more.

“What was that bullshit?!” he hisses at Geno while the arena music thunders around them.

Geno gives Sid a mulish look and tries, “He slash you—”

_Oh, so this is_ my _fault now?_ Sid thinks, furious. _Oh, hell no._ Every player on this team knows that he expects them to fucking control themselves, and that the coaching staff does, too. He’s gotten on their cases about it so many times that it’s become fucking _infamous_ , and he’s not going to back down now.

“Are you an enforcer?” Sid snaps, feeling his lips pull back from his teeth. “Is that what Pittsburgh spent a first-round pick on? Is that what you contribute to this team, Geno?”

Geno argues, “Shouldn’t grab you, Sid—”

“No, he fucking should not,” Sid agrees, feeling his anger at Ribeiro rise, too, “but that does not mean you get to fucking trip him right in front of the fucking ref! That is _bullshit_ , Geno!”

“Fuck off,” Geno growls back, but Sid is not done.

“You promise me,” he says, choppy with anger, “that you are going to play with some goddamn self-control, or I will tell Dan you need to be benched, because you’re a liability.” Geno will be lucky if he doesn’t get suspended, frankly, and Sid won’t have that. He just won’t.

“You don’t do this,” Geno protests, gulping for air.

Sid narrows his eyes. “ _Try me_. Promise, Geno.” He keeps his voice steady, unyielding. “Or I will. I don’t want an enforcer on my power play unit. I want a fucking skill player. If you can’t be that, you shouldn’t be out there.”

“Fuck _you_ , Sid,” Geno grits out. But after five endless seconds, he spits, “I’m not trip anybody.”

“Or slash, or—”

“No more fucking penalties, Sid, I’m know what you mean! _Fuck_!”

And that’s that. Sid knows Geno won’t break a promise. In the tunnel, on the way to the locker room for the second intermission, Sid pulls Geno aside and says, more gently, “We shut them up by winning. That’s always how we’ve done it. You know that.”

Geno blows out a breath. “Yes. I know.” He manages a tight smile. “Need two goals for that. I get one – you get one?”

Sid grins. “Yeah, it’s a deal.”

Sid’s brain is too much in the game to notice anything weird in the locker room during intermission, but after the game, the press scrum is… strange. Half the reporters are looking at him like they think he’s had a psychotic break, and the other half are giving him sympathetic looks and asking him questions with a bizarre gentleness.

When that weirdness is over, and Sid has showered, there’s a new weirdness, this time from the team. The mix is a little more toward the sympathy, but there’s plenty of wide-eyed staring happening, and a couple players look scared. He has no idea what the fuck is going on. The confusion only mounts when Duper clears his throat and offers, “Maybe you should… come home with me, Sid. The kids haven’t seen you in a while, I know Maeva misses you… You could bunk down in the spare room.”

“I’m going home,” Sid says, puzzled. “With Geno.” Who left already, obviously – no surprise. He and Sid had managed their promised goal apiece, but they’d lost anyway, and Geno doesn’t hang around after losses. But most of the players in the locker room fucking _wince_ when Sid says Geno’s name. He’s starting to get a little irritated with everyone acting like space aliens, so he asks, “What’s going on? Why are you all looking at me like—”

Karver interrupts, in a hushed voice, “You _yelled_ at your _dom_.”

Sid blinks. A survey of the other faces in the room indicates that Karver is speaking for everyone right now. This is what they’re all freaking out about. It hadn’t even crossed Sid’s mind.

“Come home with me tonight, Sid,” Duper tries again. “Give him some time to cool off…”

Shocked, Sid says, “You think he’s going to… break up with me? Over… getting yelled at on the bench?”

The looks on some of his teammates’ faces say without words that yes, that is exactly what they think. Some of the others look more conflicted. Paulie says quietly, “No. I don’t think he would. But, Sid… we all know he has a temper. Let him punish you when it’ll be just that: punishment. Discipline. Not… taking it out on you—”

Sid feels like he is the only sane person in a world gone completely crazy. “Geno is not going to _punish_ me—”

“You _yelled_ at him,” Karver says again, sounding like she can’t believe the magnitude of Sid’s error. “You disrespected him, Sid. Insulted him. Of course he has to—”

_Oh, fuck this_. “You are all out of your fucking minds,” Sid says flatly. “Yes, I yelled at Geno. Just like I have, at some point, yelled at every single one of you. Just like I have yelled at Geno a dozen times before. Because he is a player on my team, and I am _the_ _goddamn captain_.”

He stares around the room, breathing heavily, until he has met the eyes of every player in the room. “I have never cut the doms on this team a special break, and I never will. And that doesn’t change when I’m in a relationship with one. My romantic relationship with Geno is separate from our professional relationship, and Geno understands that. Even if none of the rest of you fucking do.”

Sid gets dressed as fast as humanly possible, pulling on his clothes with jerky movements. He cannot stand here one minute longer than necessary. God, even Flower didn’t stand up for him – that stings worst of all. _This was the other shoe_ , he thinks. He thought he would feel relieved once it happened, that it would feel better just to _know_. But he doesn’t. It just feels like when he was a rookie, like he has to convince his teammates of his leadership—of his fucking _personhood_ —all over again. He can _do_ it, he knows that. After all, he did it once before. But it really fucking sucks.

Sid’s confidence in what he told the team lasts him all the way to Geno’s driveway; but when he turns his car off, his certainty sputters out with the engine. What if Geno feels the same way as everybody else did? What if he thinks Sid should treat him differently on the ice, now that they’re together? Sid’s stomach feels cold with nerves. Maybe he _should_ go to Duper’s house, just in case. Karver is right, after all – Sid _had_ … well, “talked back” doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’d—if he’s honest, he’d _disciplined_ Geno, right there in front of everyone, their teammates, the entire hockey world, everyone watching on TV…

_Fuck_ , Sid thinks. _Fuck_. Not a lot of doms would put up with that kind of treatment from their sub, when he thinks about it that way. However Geno might feel about the yelling in and of itself, he might very likely be angry that Sid had treated him that way in public – god knows, Sid realizes now, Geno’s probably never going to hear the end of it from opponents. _You let your_ sub _punish_ you _, Malkin? I don’t know how you do it in Russia, but here in America, it’s the_ subs _that get punished…_

It’s not exactly going to help Geno’s reputation. God, Sid was naïve—

“No,” Sid tells himself determinedly. “No way. Geno understands. Geno likes me the way I am. Geno gets it, even if nobody else does.” But his voice sounds thin and unconvincing.

He makes himself get up and go into the house. Geno is slumped on the couch, staring at nothing, which is pretty normal behavior for Geno after a hard-fought loss. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He looks up at Sid, and doesn’t say anything, until Sid finally blurts, “I’m not sorry,” and immediately wishes he could take it back. Could he sound more like a fucking brat?

“Sorry for what?” Geno asks, face blank, and the sick feeling in the pit of Sid’s stomach grows.

“I’m the captain,” Sid says, voice shaking. “I have to do what’s best for the team, I have a responsibility to them, to the fans—I have to help the team be the best that it can be, even if that means being harsh sometimes, but it’s—it’s not personal, it’s professional, and I—I hope you can understand that, but even if you can’t, it’s not going to change, and if you can’t be okay with that, then we should probably—” God, he’d known it all might fall apart, but he hadn’t thought that it could happen so _fast_. He pulls in a breath that’s shamefully ragged, and finishes softly, “I don’t want you to leave, Geno.”

Geno is up and off the couch in an instant, looking completely flabbergasted. “Leave? Sid, no, of course not leave, why you say this—”

“I yelled at you,” Sid says, numb. “I—I _disciplined_ you in front of everybody, the team said you would be so mad—”

“Yes, I’m mad,” Geno admits, and when Sid flinches back, he swears and continues, “but I get mad when _anybody_ discipline, Sid, you know this. You know I get mad when Dan yell, criticize – get mad when Metallurg captain yell, too. I’m not _more_ mad because you my sub. No, Sid,” he says, shaking his head. “Never. You _captain_. Captain have right to yell. Have right to discipline. Captain is… dom of team,” he finishes, nodding at the ring on Sid’s right hand.

“But I’m your sub,” Sid says, watching for Geno’s reaction.

“Always.” Geno smiles at Sid, eyes soft. “And always love you. Always proud you mine. Even when I’m mad. Hockey is… separate, yes? On team, you dom of team, and I’m on team, so you my hockey dom.” Geno says this as if it’s easy, while Sid’s jaw drops. It’s _true_ , of course it’s true, but he never fucking expected to hear a dom _admit_ it, let alone Sid’s _own_ dom.

Geno continues, smiling again, “And you my… love, sex, relationship sub. But love, sex, relationship is not for hockey. I know this, Sid.” A little shyness creeps into his voice when he says, “When I start love you, in beginning, you already my captain. Best captain. And I love for this, too.”

Sid is trembling with the sudden exit of tension from his body. God, that’s… everything Sid has ever wanted to hear, and then some. But some stupid, self-sabotaging impulse makes him say, “Karver said I… disrespected you—”

Geno outright laughs at that. “You say I’m very skilled player, too good for sit in penalty box, should be scoring goals. Oh, yes,” he teases, “I’m see you don’t respect me. Such bad thing you say about me, Sid, hurt my feelings very much.”

Sid laughs a little, too – Geno’s right, after all. That _is_ what Sid had said, albeit not quite in such a nice way. “Yeah, that’s… that’s really rough, G. Big insult, there.”

Geno pulls Sid in close, tips his chin up. He murmurs, “You respect my hockey most,” arrogant as hell and absolutely right.

“I do,” Sid agrees.

“You like I score,” Geno rumbles, eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Get you hot, turn you on.”

“ _So_ hot,” Sid says, because hey, it’s the truth. “You know what’s _not_ hot, though?”

Geno hums inquiringly, scratching at the back of Sid’s neck.

Sid leans up and whispers in Geno’s ear, “When you’re sitting in the penalty box. So not sexy.”

“Hey!” Geno pulls back and glares at Sid, which doesn’t have much effect since he’s laughing at the same time. “I’m defend your honor, you know.”

Sid _does_ know. That’s the root of the problem. Gently but firmly, he says, “Yeah. You really can’t do that.”

Geno sighs. “Fine. But want to,” he grumps.

As kindly as he can—because this part isn’t Geno’s fault—Sid points out, “You know when people say that subs shouldn’t play, one of their excuses is that the doms on the team will go crazy trying to protect them. So when you—”

Geno groans, cutting Sid off, and buries his face in Sid’s hair, mumbling, “Okay, Sid, I get it, I’m worst…”

“You’re not worst.” Sid rolls his eyes at Geno’s dramatics. “It’s sweet. But also not professional. And it doesn’t help, in the long run. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Geno lets out a long sigh. Then he says, “Okay. Can’t defend your honor to other team, fine. But I can defend your honor to _our_ team, Penguins, yes?”

Sid pulls back in surprise. “Geno…”

“They hurt you,” Geno says softly, jaw set. “They make you think I’m _leave_ you, fucking _bullshit—_ ”

Sid shakes his head. He appreciates the thought—it _had_ hurt, and part of him does want Geno to leap to his defense. But Sid doesn’t need it. “So we’ll show them they’re wrong by showing up tomorrow morning even more happy and lovey-dovey and gross than usual, okay? Not by… whatever you were thinking of, come on, Geno.” He intentionally doesn’t mention that some of the team had thought Geno would punish him – or worse, would take it past the boundaries of punishment. It would only wound Geno more, to know that the team thought he was capable of that.

“We shut them up by win, huh?” Geno asks, with a rueful smile.

“Always,” Sid agrees, smiling back.

At the next morning’s practice, they don’t even have to _try_ to be disgustingly sweet. Sid’s every thought that isn’t about hockey is about the fading rope marks tracing over his body when he woke up, and especially the marks around his forearms, where Geno had bound his own wrists to Sid’s, and then wrapped both their arms around Sid’s chest in a double embrace, murmuring, “You mine, Sid, always, and I’m always proud, always want. Fuck anybody who say I leave you. Fuck anybody who say I let you go. You remember this, okay? When they say. You remember I bind you to me. Because you mine always, and I love you.”

Geno, for his part, dotes on Sid obnoxiously for the whole day, snarling at Duper when he’s about to touch Sid’s sticks, and bringing Sid a tiny cheesecake the size of a muffin to go with his lunch. The team seems confused but relieved – _nobody wants Papa and Daddy to get a divorce_ , Sid thinks, rolling his eyes.

Geno caps off his weirdly solicitous behavior by actually volunteering to take questions after practice, which gets Sid out of it. He doesn’t realize what Geno’s about to do until one of the reporters has already asked Geno what he thought about being disciplined by his sub during yesterday’s game – and by that point, it’s too late for Sid to do anything about it.

“You ask wrong question,” Geno says, and then proceeds to stare at the reporter until the reporter wilts under his gaze and dutifully responds, “What’s the right question?”

Geno nods. “Ask me, ‘Geno, how you feel about be discipline by team captain in game last night?’”

Now it’s the reporters’ turn to stare. One intrepid journalist finally repeats Geno’s question, and Geno breaks out into an exaggerated smile. “Good! Good question. Now I’m answer.” His smile becomes more natural. “I’m not say I feel good to be discipline. I’m not like, ever. But is good feeling to know I can trust captain to do right thing for team. Is good feeling to know captain gonna stand up for team, make team best. Because this is what I want also: I want team be best. And I like captain help me help team be best.”

The same reporter who eventually asked Geno’s question follows up, “So you like having Crosby as your c—the captain?”

Geno, of course, notices the slip. “Yes,” he says firmly, “I like have Sid as _my_ captain. Best at hockey, best at lead team. At lead _me._ ” Ignoring the shock rippling through the room at that last pronouncement—at the idea that a dom might be _led_ by his sub… and, crazier still, might _like_ it—Geno adds, “Also best looking,” and winks. “But this is not require – is just bonus.”

Sid can feel himself turning red, and his hands come up unconsciously to cup his wrists. He’d never have asked for this kind of declaration. But he can’t deny that, having received it, it makes him feel warm through and through.

_This is the shoe dropping, too_ , he thinks, but this time, it’s a good one.

They’re okay. They’re really going to be okay. And if he has Geno, then all the rest of it… he can deal. With Geno, Sid thinks, he could do anything.

Jen declares an end to the questions, probably more for the delicate constitutions of the press corps than for Geno’s sake, since Geno is beaming and exuding a satisfaction not unlike the kind of satisfaction Sid sees in him after a good scene.

In the car on their way home, Geno asks, cheeky, “You like how I’m defend your honor, Sid?”

“Your marks faded, I need some new ones,” Sid says, because the alternative is to make some horrifyingly soggy profession of undying devotion that is not appropriate for this car ride and possibly not appropriate for grown adults anywhere, ever. “Drive faster, okay?”

Geno’s eyes go wide. “Faster,” he croaks, “yes, okay, good,” and obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://youhideastar.tumblr.com)!
> 
> All feedback is loved! Just copying and pasting a line or two that stood out to you means a lot. Thank you for reading!


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